"Make this next right," Blake said.

"Where?" Rachel slowed her car, then turned her head, eyes angled up at the sharp rise twisting into a neighborhood where houses perched on the hillside like a steep staircase. "Right here?"

"Yeah." He pointed.

She made the turn tentatively. Blake learned to drive in Pittsburgh and yet after all these years, he was occasionally intimidated by the side streets that were nothing more than paved trails squeezing their way up and down the faces of shale and limestone elevations.

"The steepest city street in the whole country is about a quarter-mile from here," he said. "Canton Avenue."

She gave him a quick glance indicating, "Never heard of it" then shifted her eyes back to the road. The chassis dipped and the car rocked.

"Thirty-seven percent grade." He indicated the slope with his hand.

"Steeper than this?" she said, following the bumpy road, up, up, up.

"Crazy steep," he said. "Way steeper than any street you'll find in San Francisco."

Climbing the hills in this part of town, drivers couldn't see over their hoods. They drove with blind faith, a belief that there was asphalt beneath their wheels as they reached the summit and their vehicles finally leveled out. It took years of getting used to.

Once winter weather blew in, the homegrowns knew which streets to avoid. Only idiots and drunk drivers would risk life and limb attempting to scale or descend narrow, slippery cobblestone and brick streets. Once they realized they'd made a terrible mistake and regrettably their automobiles had lost the battle to ice and gravity, they'd leave behind loud collateral damage in the form of sideswiped parked cars, and occasionally their overheated vehicles would end up in some pissed-off homeowner's front yard. Fortunately, mild autumn weather decided to stick around a little longer this year.

"Take this next left," he said.

Rachel's Honda stopped at the curb in front of a modest brick home. A cracked cement walkway bisected the small, weedy front yard. The building sat between two charming brick single-family homes with fenced, well-tended yards. She popped the trunk then got out of the car. Blake grabbed two buckets of joint compound and set them on the sidewalk. "Can you get that box?"

She removed the box of drywall tape and slammed the trunk. She glanced across the street at a withered jack-o-lantern sagging on a neighbor's porch, looking at them with sunken, droopy eyes.

"Sorry about using your car," he said.

"No worries."

"My car's making some new noises. None of them good." He glanced at rolls of bundled carpeting on the curb and sighed. "I thought the trash collectors would take these." He groaned, lifting the heavy buckets.

At the end of the walkway, he found his keys and opened the front door. Rachel followed him inside. The house was clearly a work in progress, with exposed floors and unfinished walls.

She did a slow turn, taking it all in. "It's not as bad as I thought."

"I'm gonna tile the kitchen floor this weekend, and maybe..." He looked around at several uncompleted projects.

"You doing this all by yourself?"

"We did multiple trips with Damon's truck, lumber, and drywall. But he pretty much drinks beer and bullshits while he watches me work."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"But seriously," Blake said. "In a couple weeks I could probably list it."

"Yeah, I could see that. If you clone yourself, never sleep, eat, or go to the bathroom."

"I'm behind on the payments. I need to get this finished."

She pulled up her collar. "Brrrrr. It's cold in here."

"I got a space heater in the other room."

"I'm good." She rubbed her hands together as she peered into the adjoining room. "Some paint would help. Brighten it up a bit."

"I got another coat of mud then a ton of sanding to do before I can even think about paint."

"Mud?"

He gestured toward the buckets of joint compound. "This stuff."

Looking around, she said, "Anything I can do to help?"

"Stand right there." He reached for his phone. "The way the sun is hitting your face--"

"Don't. Don't." She turned away. "I hate the way I look in pictures."

"You look amazing. You always do." He set his phone on the counter. "Think I'm being weird?"

"You're being cute. What time do you want me to pick you up?"

"I don't know. I guess around seven. I'll text you."

"I'll be back around five with a pizza." She grabbed her car keys.

########

Monday afternoon in the office of Simon's Used Cars, Blake sat in a coffee-stained swivel chair, tilting his head at the old faded photographs mounted on the wall beside the Top Salesman plaques.

In the framed pictures, down in the pit of a busy construction site, bulldozers, backhoes, and excavators loaded tons of earth into dump trucks. Men wearing hard hats looked on.

Blake's coworker James stepped off the lot into the office, unzipping his coat while closing the door behind him.

"What're these?" Blake asked, tipping back a cup of bitter coffee.

"Oh, yeah. The big dig back in the '70s. Think it was in the '70s."

"God, this coffee sucks." Blake winced.

"Free coffee always sucks." James leaned closer to the photos. "They were gonna build a high-rise building down there where the garage is."

"Who was?"

James shrugged. "Some developer dudes. Dug that big ass hole in the ground then ran out of money."

"Where'd you get that?"

"See, there's this thing called the internet."

Blake chuckled as he leaned back in his chair.

Overhearing the conversation, the Office Manager, McQuaid, came out of the backroom, sipping from a Styrofoam cup. His cheap tie rode the slope of his distended belly. "Old man Simon bought the property in '98," he said. "The land sat vacant for years. They basically gave it away to anybody who'd pay the taxes. He built the garage down in the pit and set up the car lot up here. So..." He turned his palms upward, nearly spilling his coffee. "Here we are." Through the office window, he watched a sedan stop and the doors open. A middle-aged woman and her red-faced husband got out and circled a Jeep. "History lesson is over." McQuaid took a drink from his cup. "You maybe gonna get this?"

"Yeah. sure." Blake stuffed his arms into his blazer then stepped out onto the lot wearing his friendliest face. "How are you folks today? Something I can help you find?"

"Could help me find a better price," the man snapped.

"Not sure about this color." The woman cocked her head.

"There's a helluva scratch here." Her husband rubbed his finger across the hood. "Look at that. All the way down to the metal."

The rumble of a familiar drab Explorer attracted Blake's attention as it drove onto the lot and slowed in front of the small office building.

"Hey, dipshit!" McQuaid stood in the doorway, growling at the young red-haired driver, his complexion like the surface of Mars. "You're two hours late!"

The driver mumbled something unintelligible.

"Wait for me down the garage," McQuaid said. "Go!"

The Explorer chugged noisily past Damon, who climbed the steep driveway from the cinder block garage in the adjoining lot below.

"Are you even listening to me?" The grumpy husband barked at Blake.

"Yeah. You interested in taking her for a test drive?"

"Forget it." The man waved him off and got back into his car with his wife.

"Hey, Damon," McQuaid shouted as he approached. "What're you doing up here?"

Damon drew his cellphone from his stained mechanic's overalls. "I'm checking salvage yards." He wheezed, out of breath. "No way to make a call from the garage. Can't get a signal down in that dead zone."

Blake followed them into the office.

"The tranny on that Buick is totally f'ed up," Damon said. "We're probably looking at three grand for a rebuilt one."

McQuaid groaned then tossed his half-filled cup into the trash can, splashing coffee onto the floor.

########

Leaning on the bar, eyes on the TV, Allan said, "I remember when the Packers/Lions games were must-see TV. Now..." He waved dismissively.

Rachel placed a frosted mug on a coaster, twisted off a bottle cap, and poured him a beer.

"Bunch of spoiled millionaires. No team loyalty." Allan drank then smacked his lips. "Too much money is worse than not enough money."

"Is it, though? Really?" Her eyes lit up when Blake and Damon entered and approached the bar. Blake shuffled to an open bar stool, deflated, looking like a scarecrow in a rumpled suit jacket. "A couple of beers for you hardworking men?"

Damon nodded. "You read my mind."

From Allan and the nearby barstool occupants, Blake felt the cloud of resentment growing thicker with each glance he got from Rachel. She served him a beer. "Babe, you look like roadkill."

He heaved a heavy sigh. "Four people on the lot in eight freakin' hours."

She kissed her fingers and then pressed them to his cheek. He brightened.

"Rachel," Damon said. "What is a mega-hottie like you doin' with Smeagol?"

"Smeagol?" Blake winced. "Thanks for hypin' me up."

"You can't believe the things he can do with Ramen noodles," she purred.

"Yeah," Damon groaned. "I'm sure that's it." He curled his fingers into the palm of his hand and inspected his black fingernails. "Give me a shot of Jack when you get a chance."

"Double?"

"Better not. I'm outta shape. The way my body feels, I'll never see thirty."

"Not with that attitude." She poured his shot. "If you hit the gym three times a week and start eating healthy, I bet you make it to thirty-one."

Allan laughed.

Behind the bar, on his way past, Lou tugged Rachel's collar and peeked down her back. "New bra?"

She slapped his hand. "Asshole."

"Damn right," said Allan.

Lou chuckled and backed away.

"Not cool, dude." Damon scowled. "There's laws against that shit."

Lou rolled his eyes.

Blake growled, "Thought you said that squid was keeping his slimy tentacles to himself."

"This uniform should come with a Taser." She rinsed a few glasses. "So, Babe, one of the girls called off. I might need to cover her shift tomorrow night. We could use the extra money."

"Guess I'll work on the house." Blake finished his beer, narrowing his eyes at Lou.