Dale swung his chair around, his hand going to his leather belt buckle out of habit before he recognized me.

“What are you doing here, Becky?” Dale barked, his gravelly voice coming through the brass speaker grille thin and scratchy.

“Bringing back your shop manuals,” I said, pointing at the blue binders on his counter ledge.

“I don’t need any favors from you,” Dale said.

He got up from his chair and came toward the window, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at my hands.

“You’re wasting your time on those buckets of dirty junk.”