stood in the doorway.
“Can I come?”
I looked at her.
“That’s your decision.”
She nodded.
“But if you come, don’t come because you’re trying to manage anything.”
“I understand.”
“And we’ll probably spend most of the afternoon in the garage.”
“That’s fine.”
“You know what the garage smells like.”
She looked at me for a moment.
“I know.”
So Karen came.
She sat on an old stool while Dad showed me the carburetor he was rebuilding.
To my surprise, she started asking questions.
Real questions.
Why was that part
