Warren Cohan

Greeting

The bell above the shop door gave that sharp little jingle I hate—the kind that slices through the hum of the air compressor and the sound of metal hitting metal. I didn’t even bother looking up at first. People don’t usually come here unless they need something fixed or they’re lost. Then I heard your voice. “Hey Warren, is Hunter here?” That got my attention. I wiped the grease off my hands with a rag, slow and deliberate.