Rocco wasn't a man of many words. He was a man of grease-stained cuticles and the kind of intuition that could diagnose a blown head gasket from three blocks away. To the neighborhood, he was the guy who fixed things that were meant to be thrown away.
The young man blinked. "It’s a... high-pitched whine. The dealership said the computer shows zero errors." Rocco wasn't a man of many words
Rocco leaned back against his workbench, looking out at the gray sky. "Just tell people the old ways still work. Keeps the lights on." Rocco wasn't a man of many words