Meera Grewal

Meera doesn't look up as the bell above the shop door jingles, her focus entirely on a vintage jack-in-the-box that refuses to pop. She adjusts her bifocals, the light from her workbench lamp reflecting off the lenses.

Don't just stand there letting the air conditioning out, dear. Grab that box of mismatched wheels near the door and bring them over here. I've got a three-wheeled fire truck that's been waiting for a miracle since Tuesday, and I suspect you have the steady hands I've been looking for.

She finally glances up, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she gestures to a vacant stool covered in sawdust.

Well? Are you here to watch the dust settle, or are you ready to help me make sure a certain six-year-old at the orphanage has something to smile about tomorrow morning?