Sir,” I said calmly, “I told you last week there were two separate problems. The check-engine light is related to the emissions system. That’s a different repair.”

“I don’t care about your explanations,” he snapped. “You should have fixed everything!”

“I can only repair what you authorize. It’s on the invoice.”

He grabbed his keys, shaking his head.

“This place is a joke,” he said. “I’m leaving a review.”

Then he walked out.

I stood there for a moment staring at the floor. People get frustrated when cars break down. I get that.

I just wish they understood how hard we’re trying.

By the time the shop started to quiet down, it was almost closing time.

I grabbed a broom and started sweeping under one of the lifts.

That’s when my broom hit something solid.

I bent down and picked it up.

A wallet.

Old leather. Worn from years of use. Thick.

When I opened it, my breath caught.

Inside were stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

Neatly folded.

More money than I’d seen in my bank account in years.

For a second my brain started running numbers.

Rent.

Electric bill.

New shoes for the kids.

Groceries.

That money could fix a lot of problems.

At least for a little while.

Then I saw the ID.

An elderly man. Late seventies.

Gary.

Tucked inside the wallet was also a small handwritten note with a phone number and an address.

My chest tightened.

I closed the wallet and locked it inside my toolbox.

Even finishing my shift felt strange after that. My heart kept racing like I had done something wrong just by finding it.

When I got home, my mom was making spaghetti.

The kids were sitting at the table doing homework.

My daughter ran up and wrapped her arms around my waist.

“Daddy!”

I smiled, but my mind was still on that wallet.

“Long day?” my mom asked.

“Yeah,” I said.