"Hi—need help?"
The voice came from a beat-up sedan yawning its lights on the shoulder. A man leered out the window and waved. Dirt on his sleeve. A cheap grin. Zhen didn't look up from the wheel nuts she was loosening.
"You lost?" she asked, one hand steady on the wrench.
"You and that spare on your shoulder? I can give you a hand," he said. "Pretty girl with a toolbox. That's a crime and a half. Name's Jared."
"Nice to meet you, Jared," Zhen said, voice flat. "Tools are mine. Spare is bolted. I'm fine."
He leaned over the hood toward her cab. "You drive that big rig alone? Come on, I know drivers. We get lonely on these roads. You need company."
"Not tonight," she said. Her hands moved. One lug came loose, then two. She took the spare down without looking at him.
A kid on a bike slowed near the ditch and listened, eyebrows up. The kid's mother stood on her porch across the road watching them both like a referee.
"Come on, don't be like that," Jared said. "How about a coffee at the next station? I know a place with good pie."
Zhen slid the spare under the axle, heaved the jack up with a practiced grunt, and cranked. Dirt stuck to the threads of her palms. "I don't date guys who whistle," she said. "I don't date guys who don't know how
