After dropping Tooney’s Bronco off behind his café, Logan headed over to the Dunn Right, getting there just past 9 a.m.

Since he was usually the first one in every morning, he took some ribbing from the other guys for oversleeping, but didn’t correct the misperception. Soon they were all elbows deep on their own projects, and talk was restricted to the occasional joke or comment on something the DJ on the radio said.

At noon, as Logan headed out to grab some lunch, Alejandro, Dunn Right’s head mechanic, pulled him aside. “Harp not coming in?”

Logan’s dad had yet to show up, which, in Alejandro’s eyes, would be unusual. Harp had seldom missed a day in the forty years since he’d bought the place from a guy name Alan Dunn. He’d kept the name because, as he always liked to say, “Dunn Right sounds a hell of a lot better than Harper Right.”

 “He had some things he had to take care of,” Logan said.

“He’s feeling okay, though, right?” Alejandro had been at Dunn Right for twenty-one years, and had developed a close relationship with Harp.

“He’s—” Logan stopped himself. Those stitches on the side of his dad’s head were going to be very visible, so just saying he was fine wouldn’t cut it. “Actually, he fell down this morning. It’s nothing serious. Just a cut on the side of his head that needed a few stitches.”

“You weren’t going to tell me about that? What was it? The stairs? I keep telling him that he needs to move someplace that’s only one story.”

“It wasn’t the stairs,” Logan told him. “He was…helping a friend, got pulled off balance and fell. Just an accident. Could have happened to you, too.”

“But he’s going to be okay?”

“He’s already okay.”

“You going to go see him now?”

“There’s no reason to. I’m just going to go get some lunch.”

“Maybe I should go check on him.”