My father’s eyebrows crinkled the middle of his forehead as he listened to the squeaking that my car was making.
“It sounds like you need a belt replaced. What year is your car?”
“Two-thousand and five. Well, that’s good to know. I’ll have to figure out when I can take my car up to the shop this week.”
Two days later he stopped by my office.
“Mind if I take a look at your car again?”
He pulled his car next to mine in the parking lot, pulled out a new belt he had purchased, and got to work. This was during the middle of winter in Detroit; there was four inches of snow on the ground and it was windy. It was miserable outside.
“Dad, are you sure you don’t want me to just come over after work so you can do this in the garage? I don’t mind.”
“Nah, I’m okay.”
Twenty minutes later my car was fixed.