She snapped her fingers. From the shadows, a pair of glowing mechanical arms unfolded from the ceiling—like a praying mantis made of chrome and LEDs. They moved with impossible speed. One twisted the radiator cap off while the other injected a silver compound into the coolant reservoir. A third arm—Leo hadn’t even seen a third—slithered under the car and tightened the exhaust manifold bolts with a sound like a xylophone.
“Relax,” he said. “You’ve come to the right place. We don’t just fix cars.”
The arms retracted. Fran slammed the hood. The whole operation took forty-seven seconds. pitstop pro
He’d passed the place a hundred times. A crumbling asphalt lot behind a defunct petrol station, surrounded by chain-link and brambles. He’d always assumed it was a front for something illegal. Now, with steam starting to hiss from under his hood, he didn’t care.
“Six dollars? For that ?”
“Daddy!” she screamed, and the wish she’d been whispering dissolved into a hug.
Leo smiled. He rolled up his sleeves.
The arms hummed to life.