I wiped the grease from my hands and headed down I-30 toward the old house, the place Dad bought when I was six, back when he was still working for minimum wage at a tire shop and saving every dime to open Bennett & Sons. That garage was his whole life. And after he passed from pancreatic cancer in 2017, it became mine.

Pulling up, the place looked the same—same white paint, same cracked driveway—but I could feel something was off before I even cut the engine. Hank’s truck was in the driveway, and so was my mom’s.