"And me," said Birdie. "I can help teach. I'm a really good teacher. I taught Kelly Maki how to do a cartwheel."
"Then I'm in excellent hands," said the woman. She held out one of her own. It was cold and long-fingered and had a grip on it like a man's. "Nora Brennan."
"Dale."
"I know," she said. "Your daughter told me. And that you can fix anything."
"She exaggerates."
"No I don't," said Birdie.
He loaded the boxes back in and told her to keep it under fifty on the doughnut, and she got in. She didn't start the car right away. She sat a minute with both hands on the wheel looking out at the dark road ahead of her, and Dale had the odd sense, walking back to the wrecker, that she was praying, or bracing, or both.
Then her headlights came on and she pulled out, careful, signaling, though there was nobody there to see it but him.
Birdie climbed back up into the cab and put her sneakers on the dash.
"Feet," said Dale.
She took her feet down. She was quiet for almost a mile, which was a record.
"She has really pretty hair," she said finally.
"She does."