“Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll help you set up.”

We worked together for an hour after the shop closed. Jonah cleaned the van’s wheels and doorjambs while I corrected a few stubborn water spots. We talked about pricing, about how long a careful job really took, and about why he should never promise results before inspecting the vehicle.

He asked about the Lamborghini eventually.

“I saw the video,” he said. “Everybody at school saw it when it happened.”

I nodded.

“Did you ever want to hit that kid?”

I set down the cloth. “Yes.”

Jonah looked surprised.

“Of course I did. He destroyed something important to me, and he laughed about it. Anger isn’t the part I regret. What matters is what I chose to do with it.”

“How’d you keep from doing something?”

“I was too busy remembering what would happen afterward. I had employees, a business, people who trusted me. I wasn’t going to hand all that to a boy with a paint can because he wanted a reaction.”

Jonah considered that. “I don’t think I could’ve stayed calm.”

“You might surprise yourself. And if you couldn’t, you’d still be responsible for what you did next. That’s true for me, for Dylan, for anybody.”

We returned to the van. The work was slow, ordinary, and deeply satisfying. By the time Jonah finished, the wheels were clean and the interior smelled fresh. He stepped back to admire the result.

“Looks better,” he said.

“It does.”

I looked at his bucket on the floor. A small blue thing, less expensive than the detailing products I used in a single afternoon. But I recognized what it represented. Someone was beginning.

CHAPTER FIFTY — The Question at the School

A local high school invited me to speak to students in a career program about running a small business. I almost declined. I’d become wary of audiences after the vandalism; too many people seemed interested in the dramatic part of the story and too few in the years of work before it.

Then the teacher explained that the class was studying service businesses, customer trust, and the difference between a skill and an enterprise. That sounded like something I could actually help with.

I brought photographs of the first garage, the current shop, and several vehicles we’d restored. I explained costs students rarely consider: liability insurance, supplies, rent, payroll, taxes, equipment maintenance, and the money needed to repair a mistake properly. I talked about pricing work fairly and paying employees on time. I explained that the nicest equipment in the world couldn’t rescue a business built on broken promises.

Most students listened politely. A few asked sharp questions. One wanted to know whether I’d been rich before starting. Another asked how long it took to earn enough to buy the first lift. A girl near the window asked whether a business owner could ever stop worrying about money.

“Not entirely,” I said. “But you learn which worries help you make good decisions and which just keep you awake.”

Near the end, a boy raised his hand.

“Can I ask about the Lamborghini?”

The teacher looked uneasy. I nodded.

“Sure.”

“Did you really think about selling it after what happened?”

I paused. No one had asked me that question directly.

“Yes,” I said. “For a little while. I thought if I sold it, maybe I’d stop being reminded of that morning.”