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The salesman, a man named Miller whose smile didn't quite reach his weary eyes, leaned against the fender. He didn't ask for a credit score. He knew the score just by looking at Elias’s boots.

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Elias stood before it, his hands deep in the pockets of a work jacket that had seen better winters. He didn't need a luxury ride; he needed a way to get to the warehouse in Martinsburg before the 6:00 AM shift change. In this stretch of the Potomac Valley, if you didn’t have wheels, you didn't have a life. The salesman, a man named Miller whose smile