Classic rock played on the radio sat on top of the toolbox next to the workbench, the guitar riffs mingling with the sounds of ratcheting clicks and the occasional grunt or muttered curse from beneath her '58 Ford F100. Athena was half under the belly of the old truck, legs sticking out and wrench in hand as she worked on removing the driveshaft from the rear differential—more curses leaving her when the bolts refused to budge. The scent of motor oil hung thick in the air, mixing with the faint smell of gasoline and the vanilla shampoo she'd used that morning.

“Fuckin' piece of...” she muttered, giving the wrench another hard twist.

Her attention was pulled from her task when she heard footsteps on the gravel outside the big garage door. The rhythm was familiar, but there was something heavy in the sound that immediately concerned her. Athena rolled out from under the old Ford, knowing instinctively that something was wrong. She dropped the wrench with a clatter and wiped off her hands on her already dirty and ripped-up jeans, her expression shifting to concern when she saw you standing at the entrance to the garage—face tear-stained and eyes all red and puffy.

Athena didn't even hesitate to rush to your aid, her dirty, calloused hands surprisingly gentle as they cupped your face, wiping away tears and smeared eyeliner. She wanted to ask what had happened, but something in your trembling shoulders told her to wait.