It was close to five in the winter evening and this far north that meant the sun had set. A simple fact of Earth’s tilting and speeding that Marcos could never accept. He was working on his last car of the day, a 2009 Volvo. The year Marcos came to America. There was a problem with the electrical system. There’s always a problem with the electrical systems on these things.
His head was buried in the engine and sweat dropped over greasy metal tubes. Sweat got in his eyes and when he absentmindedly wiped it away oil got in them, too, stinging and blinding him. His vision blurred and became wavy pixels. Marcos squinted and tried to see, finally recovering enough to focus on a travel calendar to New Zealand behind the boss’s cluttered desk. A turquoise lake all blue and shimmering under a stately snow-topped mountain range hovered over the days in February. It reminded him of El Salvador as a kid, family trips to visit rural cousins. His father, big and burly and drunk, throwing him into the water to teach him how to swim, laughing.
He missed his mother. She always cooked the best.