If It Doesn't, Nothing Will

“When you gonna’ give this up, boy?” The question felt challenging, but the tone was as genial as ever.

“Dunno, pop,” Casey grunted from beneath the hood.

His father ran a hand along the graceful slope of the car’s hood with an admiring eye, “She’ll need a paint job, provided she ever starts again.”

“I reckon she will,” the younger man stated resolutely, paused, then added, “On both counts.”

A lull followed the statement. Dust motes even seemed to slow their dance in the slanted rays of light coming through the high garage door windows. The air felt heavy, as thick as the grease coating most of the engine.

“And when she does?” the old man questioned.

Ducking back under the hood, Casey answered quietly, “I’ll go.”

“You figure this’ll get you where you want to be?”

“If’n it don’t, nothin’ will.”

His father let that sit for a moment, then with a tone returned to fatherly and authoritative declared, “More than enough for today, son. Wash up and come in for supper. Don’t keep yer mother waiting.”

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