"No," Josie said. "That's okay."
"I pay for work."
"It's a piece of a bike tube."
"I paid four hundred and eleven dollars to a man who couldn't find a wore-out wire with a flashlight." He pulled out a bill and held it out. It was a fifty. "Take it."
She looked at the fifty. She thought about the propane, and about the coffee can, which had sixty-three dollars in it, and about the man from Ruby Valley Propane who had looked at her funny last time and asked if her grandpa was home, and she had said he was napping. She took the fifty and folded it twice and put it in her front pocket.
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't call me sir. You got a name?"
"Josie."
"Josie what?"
She hesitated. It was a small town, and Etcheverry was not a common name, and there had been an Etcheverry's Small Engine & Cycle out on the Wells highway for thirty-one years before it shut down. She didn't know what this man knew. She didn't know who he might talk to.
"Just Josie," she said.
Boone looked at her the way he'd looked at the engine before she opened it up.
"Alright, Just Josie," he said. "That needs a new wire. And the grommet. You said so yourself."