Nathaniel set his heavy steel toolbox on the frost-covered rear bumper of the sedan.

“The fuel line on these ten-year-old sedans clogs with sediment when water sits at the bottom of the tank,” Nathaniel said.

“I can clear the brass fitting myself if I can get the socket to turn,” Martha said, her voice soft but brisk and defensive at the edges.

“Hold this work light steady,” Nathaniel said, reaching down past the radiator hose with a half-inch box wrench.

Martha took the light, immediately reaching over with her free hand to check Daisy’s hands for cold through the open truck window.