The old Ford sat off to the side of Swede's garage, far enough from the other vehicles that I assumed Terrence had put it there deliberately.

It was a 1970 F-100, the kind of truck that looked like a truck because nobody had thought to make it look like anything else. Long hood, single cab, and a chrome bumper that had lost its shine decades ago. There were a few imperfections in the paint and enough wear to prove it hadn't spent the last fifty years waiting for somebody to take it to a car show. I hadn't yet decided if that was a bad thing or something the pick-up had going for it.

Brenda walked around the front of it, nodding her head as she inspected it.

"This is more your style."

I looked at her. "More than what?"

"The shiny one."

I'd shown her pictures of the Silverado. Apparently that had been enough for her to form opinions.

"And how exactly have you deduced what style suits me?"

She stepped back and looked from me to the Ford.

"I have eyes. The Chevy is too..."

She paused.

"Too what?"

"New."

"That's generally considered a selling point."

"I didn't say there was anything wrong with it. It's just wrong for you."

I folded my arms. "Again, I'm fascinated by how much thought you've apparently put into my relationship with pickup trucks."

"Not that much. Just enough to know what suits you. And this one is almost perfect."She smiled and continued around the passenger side.

Terrance was the lead mechanic at Swede's, although that title was slightly less impressive when you knew he was also the only mechanic at the tiny gas station, service garage, and convenience store. He'd gone through the engine himself, replaced or adjusted a few things that needed attention, and wouldn't have offered it to me if he thought it was going to leave me stranded somewhere between Flat Rock and civilization.

That was enough for me. If he said the truck was sound, I wasn't going to question him, as he knew much more about things on four wheels than I did. The rest was mostly a question of whether I wanted to drive something that had been on the road longer than I had.

Brenda opened the passenger door and looked inside.

"Bench seat."

"They used to do that."

She looked back at me. "I know what a bench seat is."

"Just checking."

She slid in and pulled the door closed.

I stared at her through the windshield.

"What?"

"I wasn't aware we were test-driving it."

"We aren't."

"You're sitting in it."

"I'm evaluating. That's completely different."

I shook my head, walked around to the driver's side, and climbed in beside her.

The cab smelled faintly of gasoline, and whatever collection of years eventually became its own scent. The dash was simple. A steering wheel, gauges, radio, glove compartment. No screen. No buttons whose purpose required consulting an owner's manual.

Brenda ran her hand across the seat.

"See? This just fits you."

I looked around the cab. "Because I'm old and I don't understand technology?"

"No, and you're not that old."

"Good recovery," I told her.

She paused, then turned toward me.

"The record store. You could have opened B-Sharp and filled it with brand-new shelves and bright lights and made everything look like one of those stores at the mall."

"Those stores don't exist anymore."

"That's not the point. You kept the old wood floors. The bins don't all match. That ridiculous bell is still hanging by the front door."

"There's nothing wrong with the bell."

"You like things that already have a story. Like the records in your shop."

That was annoyingly difficult to argue with. Outside, Terrence crossed from a Subaru he had just pulled into a parking space back toward the garage bay. He saw us sitting in the Ford, gave me a small wave, and disappeared back inside. No sales pitch, which was another reason I trusted him.

I rested my hands on the steering wheel. It was thinner than the one in my truck and larger than it needed to be. The whole thing felt uncomplicated.

The Silverado had been comfortable. Quiet. Everything worked exactly the way it was supposed to.

This felt different. Not necessarily better. Just different.

Brenda leaned back against the seat.

"I like it," she said

"I gathered that."

"I didn't say you had to buy it. But if you did..."

I turned toward her.

"If I did?"

She looked around the cab once more.

"I wouldn't complain."

I laughed and reached for the door handle.

"Let me go get the keys, and we'll take it for a spin."