Ryan pulled up to Tim Humble's auto shop, the engine knocking to silence. He trusted Tim. And he thought of him as a mentor.

The bay door was open, a rectangle of yellow light spilling onto the dirty snow. The smell of welding flux and hot metal hit him first, then the deep, steady thrum of a diesel heater. Tim was under the lift, torch in hand, a shower of orange sparks cascading around his boots.

Ryan stood in the doorway, waiting. He shoved his hands in his pockets. His heart was doing a weird, hopeful hammer against his ribs.

Tim killed the torch, the sudden silence ringing. He flipped up his welding mask with a gloved hand, his face sweaty and smudged with grime. His eyes found Ryan. “Hey Kid. What’s up?”

“I’m going to prom.” The words came out in a rushed breath.

Tim straightened up slowly, setting the torch down on a cart. He pulled off his gloves, finger by thick finger. “That a fact.”

“With Riley Jones.”

A slow smile spread across Tim’s face, cutting through the grease. It wasn’t his usual quick grin. This one was deeper, settled. “Riley Jones. Bobby’s girl?

Ryan nodded, the movement tight.

“You already asked her to prom?”

“Yes” Ryan responded

“And she said yes, huh” Tim replied

Tim just looked at him, his eyes quiet and knowing. He walked over to a stainless-steel thermos on a workbench, unscrewed the cap, and poured steaming black coffee into the lid. He took a sip, waiting.

The diesel heater thumped. Ryan scuffed his boot on the concrete, a black smear of oil and ice. “Tim, I don't know how to do the other stuff. The… suit. I don’t own a suit. The courseage, none of it”

“The suit is the easy part.” Tim took another sip of coffee “and the courseage is just another purchase”

“It’s really that simple.” Ryan was perplexed but the simplicity in Tim's answer.

“Your dad never did get the chance to have the prom talk with you”

Tims words landed softly, but they still made Ryan’s throat tighten. He shook his head, looking at a rack of exhaust pipes.

“Mine either,” Tim said. He leaned against the bench, crossing his big arms. “My old man was three sheets to the wind in a La-Z-Boy by the time I was your age. I took Shari Mullens to my prom. Showed up stoned, spilled punch on her dress, puked in a potted fern. Not my finest hour.”

Ryan almost smiled. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m trying to tell you you’re already ahead of the curve. You’re sober. You’re thinking about it. You got a plan. That’s more operational foresight than I had on my best day at seventeen.”

“What if I mess it up?” The fear came out raw, the one he’d been carrying since the picnic table.

“You can't mess up it's all in God's plan.” Tim said confidently.

‘God's plan’ Ryan though to himself. Right now he and God we're even. God took his father, but he gave him Riley. 1 and 1 God, 1 and 1.

Ryan’s head came up. “You think”

“I know. Hey since you're here you think you can help me with this alternator” Tim said with positive energy.

Ryan gave a short, tight nod and moved to the other side of the truck where the old alternator sat on the bench. He picked it up, the cast iron heavy and oil-slick in his hands.

Tim handed him a clean rag. “Make sure you get that pully tight.”

Ryan knew the process, the repetitive motion a welcome anchor. The clicking of the ratchet, the feeling of rough aluminum. Ryan had it repaired quickly.

“Here you go, good as new” Ryan said handing the alternator to Tom.

Tim worked in silence for a minute, bolting the new alternator into place with smooth, practiced turns of his ratchet. The only sounds were the metallic clicks and the distant hum of the shop’s heater.

“You’re scared,” Tim said finally, not looking up from the belt he was threading.

Ryan’s hand stilled on the rag. He didn’t answer.

“You're scared that everyone his going to laugh on you, aren’t ya”

Ryan shook his head up and down slowly.

“That’s okay. You get to be.”

“What’s the point?” Ryan’s voice was low, aimed at the engine block. “If it’s all just some… pre-written script, then why does any of it matter? Why try?”

Tim straightened up, wiping his hands on his coveralls. He looked at Ryan, his gaze steady and unoffended. “You ever put a transmission back together?”

“Yes, you know that”

“Of course, I forgot. We'll then you know It’s a plan. The factory service manual is the plan. Every gear, every synchro, every bolt has a place it’s supposed to go. A torque spec. A sequence.” He leaned back against the fender. “Now, you think following that plan means you don’t have to try? Means your hands don’t get dirty, you don’t get frustrated, you don’t sometimes force a snap-ring and bust your knuckle?”

Ryan looked at his own hands, clean for now.

“The plan isn’t the work,” Tim said softly. “The plan just tells you the work matters. That it fits into something that’ll run when you’re done. The mess, the sweat, the busted knuckles… that’s all you. That’s all love.”

The word hung in the oily air between them. Love.

“My dad,” Ryan started, then stopped. He swallowed. “Was he’s part of the plan?”

Tim’s face softened. “I don’t know, kid. I really don’t. The plan’s bigger than my head can hold. But I know the work he did on you mattered. I can see it. And I know the work you’re doing now, scared as you are, matters too.”

Ryan stared at the clean spot on the engine. A tiny, perfect circle of order in the grime.

“Hand me that 13-millimeter socket,” Tim said, his voice shifting back to the practical. “Let’s get this belt tensioned.”

Ryan passed the tool. Their shoulders brushed in the cramped space. For a moment, the shop didn’t feel like a cave. It felt like a workshop. A place where broken things were made to run again.

They finished in quiet companionship, the tensioner bolt squeaking as Tim tightened it, the belt now snug and straight. Tim gave the pulley a spin with his hand. It whirred smoothly.

“There,” Tim said. “It’ll charge now.”

Ryan helped him lower the hood. It closed with a solid, satisfying thunk.

Tim clapped a giant, greasy hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “So how'd it feel when you asked her?”

“Scary”

“I'll bet”

Tim’s hand squeezed once. “But you got through it right”

“Yes” Ryan responded reluctantly.

“Good, so now you know how to get through the rest of it.”

Tim's words always had a way of inspiring him.

“You know what Tim, screw the suit I'm wearing my cowboy hat and boots” Ryan said assertertly

“See, I knew you'd figure it out” Tim returned. “Now get outta here, go have some fun with Riley, and tell you mom hi for me”

“Thanks Tim”

“Anytime”

Ryan walked out of Tims shop that day with a new found confidence. He was going to dress the way he wanted. Not the way society told him to dress.

Ryan pulled out of Tim’s gravel lot, the shop’s single bulb shrinking in his rearview until it was just a pinprick in the vast Alaskan dark. The heater in his truck whined, pushing out air that still carried the ghost of the shop’s metallic scent.

He drove toward the Jones house without deciding to. His hands, usually tight on the wheel, rested easy. The confidence Tim had given him was a solid, quiet weight in his chest.

He knew Riley wouldn't care how he dressed. Plus Texas was in her blood how could she say no to a cowboy.