Frank paused, his brush hovering over the iron nozzle, before he went back to scraping.
“We start the winter run on Tuesday,” he said. “There will be plenty of hours then.”
I took my apron off and hung it on the peg by the time clock, the smell of warm starch and industrial adhesive clinging to my denim shirt.
My 1998 Buick LeSabre was sitting in the corner of the gravel lot under the wild cherry tree, its dark green hood covered in a fine layer of gray soot from the kiln next door.
It took eighty dollars to fill the tank at the corner station, the pump clicking off three times before the dial reached full.
The engine caught on the second turn, settling into that familiar low murmur that always made me think of my father’s old tractor.
By Saturday noon, the wind had cleared the soot from the air, leaving the sky over the Oakhaven Public Park the color of a clean zinc bucket.
