"Hi, need a hand, beautiful?" a man's laugh came from a red cab two lanes over. "I said I'm fine," I called without looking up from the lug wrench. I tightened another bolt until the socket clicked into place. "You're a real rig, huh? Shouldn't be out here alone." He honked, the sound flat as a rubber stamp. "Been alone a long time," I said. "Don't need company." "Come on. Drinks on me. Name's Aldo." He tipped his chin as if that explained everything. I wiped grease off my fingers on my jeans and handed the wrench back into the socket. "Name's Keira. Keep driving, Aldo." "You're no fun." He leaned out his window to watch, grin wide. "Truck can carry more than freight." "Last warning." I pulled the spare back into place and jammed the hubcap until it snapped. The jack creaked. The truck would sit level by the time I slid the socket back into the toolbox. A chorus of muffled whistles rose from the other rigs parked at the pullout. Old habits run deep in this circuit; men shout at one another, men judge, men cheer. One of the big boys with a faded Wyoming sticker called out, "Show us how it's done, Keira!" "Don't make it weird," I said, and there was a laugh like air through a fence. Aldo's grin faded for the span of two lung breaths. "All right. All right. I'll