The boy can't do a thing for his car but crank his ear against the odd thump or obfuscated purr, some obstinate whirring when he presses the brake pad, bumps churned out in time with the downbeat of bluegrass from the stereo. His fingers fumble for release. Under the hood, he sees a whole mess of things he does not understand and cannot explain.

He waxes his boots once a week so he can stomp through puddles unobstructed, track mud into the house, cast dust silhouettes on his jeans as he sits with his knees wide, ankle crossed over thigh, assertive with optimism. 

Confidence is metered in inch heels on linoleum floors. The mechanic asks him to spell his last name and his voice crackles out: I. 

He reminds himself high lonesome sounds carry entire genres, whole back-ached, finger-picked, tent-pitched swathes of sound fabricated on falsetto. He's a real man, yeah. He's a real man.