The kind real mechanics use. The kind that could turn a hobby into something real. Every Sunday night, he counted the money, wrote the new total on the inside of the shoe box lid. $43. He whispered to himself, Almost there.
Then he turned off the porch light, went inside, and got ready to do it all over again. But what Henry didn't know, what nobody in Redville could have predicted, was that tomorrow, a stranger on the side of a highway was about to test everything this kid was made of. The next day started like every other day in Henry's life. But by 4:00 that afternoon, he'd be standing on the shoulder of Route 12, making the most expensive decision he'd ever made.
It started with Nana Ruth. Her blood sugar spiked in the night. When Henry checked on her at 5:30, she was sitting on the edge of her bed, dizzy, gripping the mattress with both hands. Her forehead was damp.
Her breathing was shallow. Henry knelt in front of her. "Nana, I'm staying home today." She looked at him with that one good eye, the eye that still saw everything. "Boy, you are not missing school over my stubborn sugar." I raised myself before you got here.
I can raise my feet off this bed just fine. Go. He didn't want to leave. Every part of him said stay.
But Nana Ruth had a way of making a suggestion sound like a commandment from God himself. So he grabbed his backpack, checked her insulin, filled her water glass, and left. He checked his phone every hour that day, between classes, during lunch, and study hall with the repair manual sitting unopened on his lap because his mind was somewhere else entirely. She texted him once at noon.
Sugar down. Ate toast. Stop worrying. He didn't stop worrying.
After school, Henry drove to the pharmacy to pick up Nana Ruth's insulin refill. Same pharmacy, same route, same errand he'd run a dozen times before, but today was different. The pharmacist typed something into the computer, frowned, typed again, then looked up at Henry with the expression people use when they're about to deliver bad news to someone they feel sorry for. There's been a formulary change on this prescription.
The co-pay went up. Henry stared at her. "How much?" Henry asked. "$10 more than last time," the pharmacist replied. $10.
The number landed on Henry's chest like a brick. He knew exactly what $10 meant. He knew it down to the penny. That $10 was coming from the shoebox, from the scanner fund, from 5 months of scraping and saving, and telling himself, Almost there.
He pulled out his wallet, paid it, watched the cashier hand him his change in the white pharmacy bag, watched his scanner fund drop from $43 to $33. He sat in the Cavalier in the parking lot, hands on the wheel, engine off, staring straight ahead at absolutely nothing. One minute passed, then two. Then he started the car and drove toward the gas station for his shift.
On the way, he passed the empty lot on the corner of Maple and Fourth. Weeds pushing through cracked concrete. A faded for sale sign leaning sideways in the dirt. Every time Henry drove past that lot, he glanced at it.