Tim was on the phone when he came to the door, so he motioned us inside. We passed a tool bench and a Jeep with a smashed-in bumper in the repair well until we were in the back, where there was a foldout couch, a desk with an ancient computer, and a little refrigerator, where Layne got us each a can of beer. The whole place smelled like oil and gas and dirt. A box fan in the window made a Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar flutter against the wall. Layne pulled out some hand wraps from a metal utility locker and started talking about them while he wrapped up my wrists and palms. I tried to listen, but I was distracted by Tim on the phone over in the repair well. He was talking in that specific way that told me it was a girl on the line. I couldn’t quite accept the fact that Layne’s tattooed, ex-con brother might have a softer side, so I was eavesdropping like crazy. “I’ll come pick you up,” Tim was saying.
