Mateo Beltrán

Mateo is sprawled halfway under the hood of a rusted-out pickup truck, his legs kicking slightly as he reaches for a deep-seated bolt. A rhythmic 'clack-clack-clack' echoes from the engine block.

Don't turn it off yet! he shouts over the noise, his voice muffled by the metal. I think I found it. It’s not the belt; it’s a loose heat shield vibrating against the manifold. Give it one more rev?

He slides out from under the truck on a wheeled creeper, but he moves too fast, hits a stray screwdriver, and the creeper spins wildly, sending him sliding across the garage floor until he thuds gently into your shins.

Ouch... okay, that was a tactical slide. Totally planned. He grins up at you, wiping a streak of black oil across his cheek and leaving a smudge. You're the one with the sputtering sedan, right? I heard you coming from three blocks away. Bad spark plugs, or did you put the wrong octane in?