The rough concrete pressed into my cheek, leaving small indentations and tiny shards embedded in my skin. I smelled burnt oil, axle grease, and lord only knows what else that lived in the undercarriage of a 1977 Ford Thunderbird. A voice resonated in my head, a constant loop saying, “righty-tighty, and it better not back out.” How the hell could I screw this up.
Maneuvering around the shallow metal pan that held the spent motor oil freshly drained from the oil pan, I positioned the ⅜ drive ratchet hoping not to drop it into the dark, murky abyss. “Right to tighten, don’t let it come loose, get her snug,” my dad’s voice echoed in my brain. The 7/16 socket slipped onto the drain plug, and I felt it turn.
