He wasn’t angry.
Not really.
He was steady.
That scared me more.
“I won’t let them put you on display,” I said.
“I’m not asking permission to be displayed.”
“Leo—”
“I’m asking you to stop protecting me like I’m still pressed against that fence.”
The words landed heavy.
He regretted them instantly.
I could see it.
But he didn’t take them back.
And I didn’t ask him to.
Because he was right.
Part of me had kept him there.
Not because I saw him as a thief.
Because I saw him as a kid I failed to protect before I met him.
That’s a dangerous thing.
Trying to save someone from pain that already happened.
It can turn love into a locked door.
I sat on the edge of the workbench.
The shop hummed around us.
Old lights.
Cooling engines.
A radio playing low somewhere in the office.
“What do you want to say?” I asked.
Leo leaned against the opposite bench.
“I want to tell them I stole because I was desperate. I want to tell them you didn’t excuse it. You redirected it.”
He looked at the floor.
“I want to tell them Free Fix Friday isn’t about pretending people don’t make bad choices. It’s about what happens after.”
I didn’t answer right away.
Because sometimes the right answer needs a minute to walk through your pride.
Finally, I nodded.
“Okay.”
His shoulders dropped.
“But,” I said.
He rolled his eyes.
“There it is.”
“You speak for yourself. Not for me. Not for the program. Not because you think you have to pay us back. You don’t.”
He nodded.
“And if they come at you wrong, I’m ending it.”
“Hank.”
“I mean it.”
He smiled faintly.
“I know.”
The review hearing was held in a plain room with bad lighting and plastic chairs.
There were five officials at the front table.
Not villains.
Not heroes.
Just people with folders.
Preston was there too.
Of course he was.
He sat two rows back in a neat suit, hands folded, looking solemn enough to be mistaken for sincere.
I brought paperwork.
Insurance quotes.
Safety procedures.
Volunteer agreements.
Disposal records.
Proposed structure.
Everything we had built in two weeks with duct tape, coffee, and stubborn community love.
Elaine presented most of it because she had the gift of making bureaucracy sound like a bedtime story.
Gus explained repair inspections.
DeShawn explained towing safety.
Tessa explained intake.
I talked about the mission.
Then one official adjusted his glasses and asked the question I knew was coming.
“How do you determine whether applicants are deserving?”
The room went still.
There it was again.
Deserving.
A word that looks clean on paper and gets filthy in practice.
I leaned toward the microphone.
“We don’t use that word.”
The official blinked.
“You don’t determine need?”
“We determine whether the vehicle is essential and whether the repair is necessary for safe operation. We don’t grade human worth.”
A murmur moved through the room.
Preston shifted in his seat.
The official wrote something down.
Then Leo stood.
My heart kicked once.
Hard.
“My name is Leo Martinez,” he said.
His voice shook at first.
Then steadied.
