I STRIDE into Doc's repair shop the next day, sliding my sunshades over my hair and observing the dirty cars and oil-stained equipment. Today, I dress appropriately—old T-shirt, faded jeans, sneakers. Nothing I can't afford to throw away.
Doc stops working when he sees me. His head pops out of the car's hood and his eyes do that thing where they see right into my brain. "You're back."
"I was told you usually ask for a wrench." Pushing up my sleeves, I march straight to the toolbox. My eyes land on a pile of metal tools. Panic slaps me in the side of the head. Which one's the wrench?
With the flat of his hand, Doc slams the tool box closed. "I think I made myself clear yesterday, ma'am. My technology is for males only."
"I didn't drive all the way here just to go home."
"Then perhaps you'd like some lemon water before you go." He gestures to a table set up with two chairs and a mug filled with water and lemon slices.
Savage.
Noted.
