Wind whistles its way through sprawling, naked branches of elm trees on the outskirts of the mechanic's shop. The branches jumble and clack together, playing a spooky tune that bounces off brick walls, scattered car husks, and the parking lot carpeted in gravel. Tingles of foreboding tickle the back of Thea's head. Staring at the garage's red entrance door from across the way, she wrings her hand around the handle of her cane. "You've got this, Thea." She coughs twice to encourage the lump in her throat to move. "Hello Elia. C—Can I pay you — No, no no. Hey Elia, I've been a good customer for the last year, right? Could you do me a favor this one time?"

No one responds. Except for a sudden gust of wind dancing through her cassock's cape in a flapping frenzy. Even with the heavy cloth, the chill of the fall air seeps through her cassock and into her bones. She starts toward the door. "You've got this, you'll figure it out."

Nearer to the shop, the sounds of heavy, grinding machinery spills out of open awning windows near the roof. Nerves replace air in Thea's lungs. A little breathing and she'll be able to do this. Definitely. She begins sucking in a deep breath and counts in silence from one to seven. At four, the expansion of her lungs stretches her cassock tight against her shoulders, back, and chest. By seven, her eyes feel like they're about to shoot out and her diaphragm quakes with an odd, fiery tremor.

Too much air too fast, like always; she should practice this when she doesn't need it. Just count: five seconds now. She braces her throat, holding back the swell of carbon dioxide. One. Two. The pressure builds in her throat desperate to escape. Three, four, five. Relief floods her mind and she lets the seal on her airway fall away, but not all at once. Seven more seconds now. She purses her lips like she's about to whistle and the air streams out under careful control.

She barely makes it to six. Her lungs feel barren: tingling with pain from trying to hold out. Did that help? Not really, but nothing else would either. She bangs on the door.

The sounds of machinery peter out into metallic whirs, then silence. Time stretches. Static tingles in Thea's stomach: should she knock again— was that a footstep? No. She hovers a fist near the door, wrestling the limb forward and back — millimetres each way — with the rhythm of conflicting thoughts.

The door inches open and a cloud of fuzzy brown hair drifts through the crack with a head and the scent of huckleberry right behind: Duffie, Elia's junior mechanic. They're covered in grease stains, scrapes, and — maybe that wet patch on their coveralls is water? But matte streaks draw arcs from their eyes and down their cheeks. They wave, keeping their arm tucked too close to their side. "Hey, Thea. Elia's not around right now... Can you come back later?"

Nerves disappear from her stomach. All those years of confession and each time a member of the parish opened up to her runs through her mind. All the help she gave them. And the response is automatic, coming from her mouth before she realizes that outside of a mechanic is not the place to do this. "Is everything okay, friend? Is their something you need to get off your chest?"

Confusion tints Duffie's face for a moment, then — eyebrows jumping with surprise — they rub at their face with a forearm. Their heavy coverall sleeve muffles their words. "I'd rather not talk about it with you."

Push just a little more. She reaches a hand forward, aiming to place it on Duffie's shoulder in reassurance. "Are you sure?"

They dodge the approaching hand with a tilt of their shoulder. "I've got this weird thing about priests; I just don't feel comfortable with the question, okay? Can we drop it, maybe?"

Thea lets her hand fall back to her side, dangling and useless. "Oh, yes. S—Sorry."

"As I said, Elia isn't here. I'd honestly recommend against coming back later today too, she's in a mood. I'm going to close the door now if you—"

Gravel shifts in the rhythm of footsteps and Elia calls from behind Thea, her voice commanding yet neutral. "I got this, Duffie. Go back to work."

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Thea's heart springs into her throat. She pivots around and throws out a soup of words before Elia is even in sight. "Hey, hey. Hi. How are you?"

Something battles in Elia's eye's. Nothing supernatural or super powered seeming. Kind of like a pitcher and a batter sizing each other up and guessing at what the other will do, but Elia is both of them at the same time.

Thea's thoughts run in all directions: is she going to say something? Maybe another hello and she'll snap out of it... She hasn't told Thea to leave yet like she usually does, so that's good news. Right? Thea rubs at a particularly rough bit of wood on her cane, scratching away at wood fibers peeking through a worn patch of varnish.

Elia nods and the odd look in her eyes disappears into a glassy nothingness. "You're here about your bike."

"Yes. Yes, the bike. Do you think, possibly, that you'd be okay with, maybe—"

"No."

"—reconsidering your stance on..." Thea's mind catches up a few words past the interruption and resignation weighs down her shoulders. This is more like Elia.

Elia doesn't so much as blink. "I just said no."

"Yes, I heard that. There's nothing I can do to change your mind?"

"Nope, she'd be mad later if I did anything else. Do you have the money to pay for your repairs?"

"Well, no. That's why I came to talk— Wait. Excuse me, but she? Who?"

Elia edges past Thea and swings the door to the shop open. "Me. If you don't have enough to pay for repairs, you should leave I suppose. The sooner the better I think."

Resignation washes away in a surge of purpose swelling in Thea's chest: she can fix this, she just needs to find the right words. She raises a hand after the stone-like figure of the mechanic standing in the doorway. "N—No, no. Wait a minute, I still have more to say! We could work something out right? I'm going to lose my apartment if I can't get back on the road to work. You know that don't you? I swear, I can pay you back for repairs after I get that sorted."

Elia strides past the threshold. "No. It's either pay or take your motorcycle somewhere else. I only have room for paying work"

"Come on, Elia. You've been doing repairs on my bike long enough to cut me a little slack here. I've never not paid you. This time I just need my bike working to make the money. Can't you please do it, just this once?"

Elia throws a stray glance over her shoulder. "No, I'm —" All at once, her face changes: eyes widen, lips twitch, and lines set into her forehead. A million emotions tug at her face until a single one declares victory through gritting teeth, narrowed eyes, and a blood red face.

Fear shoots through Thea's chest in a spark of pain and her throat goes dry. She stumbles backwards. "A—Are you okay?"

Elia stomps one foot in Thea's direction. "Am I okay? Seriously? Trying to tug at my heart strings, go around me to my employees, and guilt tripping me?" Stomping one more foot forward, she flails her arms through the air like a coach arguing with an umpire. "You're despicable. I should have dumped that trash heap the last time you came begging, but no. I just had to hold on to it just in case you came buzzing about with what you owe me. This is what I get for being nice."

Thea's worlds collide: all these allegations, but from a hurting soul; all these obligations to herself, but also to those who need help. It's clear something is wrong. Thea defies the screaming urge to shuffle backwards — to leave while she could still make it out mostly unscathed. Instead, she steps forward. "I didn't ask Duffie for anything, I promise!" She shouldn't defend herself, she needs to get through to her. She shakes her head to cast her own pride out of her mind and she locks eyes with Elia. "What's going on? You were just fine a moment ago. Maybe not as angry as usual, but even then: what happened? Is there anyway I can help?"

"Shut it with the fake concern shit. Get out of here and only come back if you're paying for repairs or moving that trash heap. I'm sick of looking at it and I'm sick of looking at you. You've got two weeks before I tear it apart myself."

Fresh fear spikes through Thea like a line drive to the gut. Elia wouldn't. No way she'd destroy Thea's motorcycle for parts. "Come on, we don't have to fight like this! And you don't need to threaten to scrap my bike!"

"Then how about you fuck off and —" Elia gets in breath-smelling distance and pokes a finger into Thea's chest on each word. "Start — getting — me — my — money!"

With the last poke, Thea's balance falters and she falls backward. She shoots her hands behind her to soften the fall, but jagged gravel tears holes in her cassock's skirt and draws lines of hot pain down her palms and backside.

Elia's eyes widen again: fear, concern, and anger swimming underneath her irises. She stares for a moment like a deer caught in headlights. Thea reaches up toward her, but she whips around. She barrels into the shop and words leave her mouth in a warble. "Damn it."

The door slams shut.

Searing hot pain fades to embers, but Thea lets herself sit there with her legs sprawling in front of herself. How is she suppose to keep going now?