Teaching Tony, showing him the ropes like Bubba showed me, it felt like part of him was still here. A week slid by like oil down a ratchet handle. The desert heat hadn't let up, but neither had we. Tony'd been showing up every morning, right on the dot, with that same beat-up blue van coughing and sputtering like it was trying to clear its throat. Kid didn't know much at first—mixed up a ratchet with a wrench, tried to pour oil where coolant oughta go—but he learned fast. We'd roll up the garage door before the sun got too mean, let the morning light pour in across the tools and old parts scattered on the floor. I'd hand him something, tell him what it did, how it breathed, how it sang when you treated it right. The way Bubba used to show me back in the day—that same slow patience, that same quiet pride when you saw someone's hands start to remember what their mind just learned. “Listen close,” I said, ear cocked toward the van's engine. “Hear how she whines a little? That ain't anger. That's just her tellin' you she wants her timing right. Pay attention long enough, she'll let you know what she needs.” Tony'd grin, grease on his cheek, sweat runnin' down his neck. “Like they're talkin' to you, huh?” “Exactly,” I said. Engines talk. You just gotta learn their language. Sometimes we wouldn't even speak. Just the rhythm of tools, the clank and hum, cicadas buzzin' outside. It was peaceful—but the quiet didn't hurt so much anymore. Not since Tony started hangin' around. Kid brought life back into the place. One evening, while we were sittin' on milk crates, watching the last of the light fade off the hills, I paused, thumb rubbin' against the ring I always wore—Bubba's old one. “Every day, kid. Ain't a moment goes by I don't hear his laugh somewhere in all this noise. He's the reason I kept goin'. Reason I ain't just another man lost to the road.” Tony nodded slow. “Maybe that's what I'm lookin' for too. A reason to keep goin'.” I didn't say much after that—just reached over, handed him a ratchet, and said, “Then let's start with this bolt right here. First lesson in not givin' up.” He smiled, and for a second... the ache in my chest loosened. The next Saturday, after a week of tinkering and teaching, I leaned against the Monte and watched Tony walk up the driveway, hands stuffed in his pockets, sunburn creeping up his neck. “Hey, Tony,” I said, tossing him a grin, “you up for a little desert cruise today?” His eyebrows shot up. “A... cruise? Around Coachella?” “Exactly that,” I said, swinging open the Monte's door. “I'll show you a few spots me and Bubba used to hit back in the day. Thought you might like to see where all the magic started.” Tony's grin widened, and before long we were rolling down empty streets, the Monte humming like it knew we were out for more than just a drive. The heat of the day pressed down, but it didn't matter—sunlight bouncing off the hood, tires whispering over cracked asphalt, and the desert open around us. “So...” Tony said, nudging the seat belt, “this Bubba guy you keep talkin' about... what's he like?” I chuckled low, eyes on the road. “Man... Bubba is somethin' else. We'd start mornings at the diner, get the biggest coffee they had, then run over to the old scrapyard by Van Buren. One day, he tried to convince me we could haul a busted Go-Kart up onto the roof of the diner just to see if it could 'fly.' I swear, Tony, I still don't know how we didn't end up in the ER.” Tony laughed, loud and unrestrained, head thrown back. “He sounds... like a great guy.” “He is,” I said, voice softening. “Kind, too. The kind of man who'd give you the shirt off his back if he thought it'd make your day better. Even when we got into trouble—and God knows we did—he was always looking out for me. Always has my back.” I slowed the Monte down and pulled into the little vista point off Highway 74 south. The Santa Rosa Mountains rose beautiful and vast, the desert sprawling below us. “See that hill?” I said, pointing. “We used to race dirt bikes down that slope, laughing so hard the dust would sting our eyes. And over there,” I nodded toward the corner diner, “we made plans for a little seafood joint—shrimp, catfish, the whole spread. Folks would come from Palm Springs, from Indio, just to eat what we cooked.” Tony whistled low. “Man... you really miss him, huh?” “Every day,” I admitted. “But y'know, teaching you, showin' you what I know... it's like he's still here, just in a different way. And maybe, just maybe, we can make sure some of that crazy energy lives on.” Tony smiled, silent for a moment, then said, “I hope I can be half the guy he is.” I laughed, slapped the Monte's dash lightly. “Kid, you're already on your way. Let's just keep our eyes on the road, ears on the engines, and hearts in the right place. That's all Bubba ever wanted from me—and that's what I'm passing on to you.” We cruised on, the desert stretching wide, and the Monte's engine hummed like an old friend. Laughter and stories bounced off the asphalt and hillsides, and for the first time in weeks, the ache in my chest softened just a little. Bubba isn't here, but his memory is alive—fueling engines, mentoring hands, and the promise of dreams yet to come. Evening settled over the valley by the time I dropped Tony off. Monte idling soft in the driveway, he swung the door open, paused mid-step, and looked back at me. “Hey, G... you really gonna take me fishin' tomorrow?” “Absolutely,” I said, a grin tugging at my face. “Sun's up early. Lake Cahuilla's waitin', and I ain't letting you wrestle a fish without showin' you the ropes.” Tony's eyes lit up like headlights. “Can't wait.” I nodded, watching him climb the steps, shadow stretching long in the porch light. “Be ready,” I called after him, voice soft. “We'll make a morning of it.” I eased the Monte onto the street. My fingers drummed lightly on the steering wheel as Benny King's Stand By Me rolled out of the stereo, warm and familiar, the melody weaving through the cab. Bubba and I used to sing it loud, windows down, desert wind whipping past. I hummed along, letting the words ride with the night air, each note carrying a little memory, a little laughter. The road ahead stretched quiet and forgiving, the desert dark around me but full of stars that made it feel alive. There was a spring in my step I hadn't felt in weeks, a lightness creeping in around the edges of my chest. Teaching Tony, watching him learn, passing on the same patience and pride Bubba gave me... it made the world feel softer, warmer. For the first time in weeks, I caught myself smiling just because I could. Someone to teach, someone to laugh with, someone who reminded me that even when part of your heart is across the country with your best friend, the present can still hum with life. It felt pretty good... — — Real good.