After the diagnosis, he drives back to the shop, sets a 2010 Toyota on the hoist, arranges an oil pan, and spins the plug from the drain. Gone the children, alcohol, and cigarettes, he shuffles around the garage in the haze of grease and lubricants stooping his bent frame under hoods. He knows everything about any make and model, resets check engine lights, undents their bodies, refuses his own treatment. On low nights he sleeps in coveralls on a cot in the small office to be closer to her urn. Under the old Toyota, the oil stream thins to a wisp, a thread, to drops faintly echoing into the pan.