My name is Evan, and if you met me on the street, you probably wouldn’t remember me.
I’m thirty-six, average height, always a little tired, usually smelling like motor oil no matter how much I scrub my hands. I work at a small auto repair shop on the edge of town—the kind of place people only come to when something’s already gone wrong.
It’s not much to look at. The paint is peeling off the walls, the floor is stained with years of grease, and the old radio in the corner only works when it feels like it. But it’s steady work.
And steady is something I’ve learned not to take for granted.
Because when I leave that shop every night, I don’t go home to rest.
I go home to my real life.