“We don’t have one.”
“Yes, that’s part of the concern.”
“Concern for who?”
“For everyone,” he said smoothly. “You. Your volunteers. The donors. The community.”
I glanced at Maddie.
She had stopped crying.
Now she just looked afraid.
Like adults were about to turn help into a test she already knew her family would fail.
Preston continued.
“We’d require income verification, employment verification, proof of residency, identification, vehicle registration, insurance documentation, and a background screening.”
Leo lowered the wrench.
I heard it before I saw it.
That little metal click against the fender.
A sound like a warning.
I kept my voice even.
“Background screening for who?”
“For applicants,” Preston said.
“They’re bringing cars, not applying for weapons.”
A few volunteers looked down to hide smiles.
Preston didn’t.
“We have to protect resources from abuse.”
“Abuse.”
“Yes.”
I nodded slowly.
“You think people are faking poverty to get free brake pads?”
“I think free services attract complicated situations.”
I looked at him.
“People are complicated.”
“That’s exactly why oversight matters.”
He flipped a page.
“And there’s one more thing. Given the viral nature of the story, we’d need a cleaner public-facing narrative.”
The shop went colder than the concrete floor.
“What does that mean?” Leo asked.
Preston looked at him for the first time.
Really looked.
At the young mechanic.
At the name patch I had sewn onto his shirt.
At the grease under his nails.
Then he looked back at me.
“The origin story is moving,” Preston said. “But perhaps not ideal in its current form.”
Leo’s face changed.
Not much.
Just enough that I saw the fifteen-year-old boy from the salvage yard again.
The one pressed against the fence.
The one waiting for the world to decide what kind of mistake he was.
