The autumn wind ripped through the oaks around the Blackwood estate, scattering leaves like coins across the manicured lawn. From the outside, the house looked perfect—colonial columns, broad windows, a driveway winding like a private road. Inside the garage, I looked nothing like that picture.
Grease-stained hands, a faded hoodie, elbows worn through. I was working on a rusted Ford …
👇 👇 👇 👇 👇
