When she pulled up to the local garage, the Baby Benz sputtered, rattled, and stalled twice. Ken, the shop owner, let out a long whistle. “Lady, this thing’s half rust, half hope.” Margaret flushed, muttering, “It’s all I could afford.” He softened. “Alright. Let’s see what we can do.”
Normally, the surprises during a restoration were mechanical—rust in the wheel wells, bad wiring, maybe a blown head gasket. Margaret expected all of that and more, and dreaded the bill. But when the call came the next day, Ken’s voice wasn’t grim about repairs. It carried a whiff of something stranger.