By Stephanie Oakes
Hannah could see the future in car parts. In the slick backs of brake pads, and the calcified pathways charted by battery acid, in the shattered bodies of taillights, metal and filaments and needles of glass spread like entrails on the oiled garage floor.
She’d crouch in her khaki jumpsuit and study the spilled contents of some customer’s Camaro, and be struck, sudden and bright, by a vision of the future. Theresa, the shop’s receptionist, would find Hannah like that, repositioning her head like a TV antenna, neck cocked uncomfortably, searching for the clearest signal, the most accurate view of this flash of future.
“This winter will be the worst anyone has ever seen,” she said, eyes still fixed on the garage floor.