Free Meek and Mild by Olivia Newport

bent over an open engine.
    Andrew cleared his throat.
    The man looked up. “What can I do for you?”
    Andrew hesitated over the ridiculous statement he was about to make. “I want to learn to do what you do.”
    The man stood up straight and looked Andrew in the eye.
    “Are you Mr. Hansen?” Andrew asked.
    “That’s right.”
    “I have a Model T,” Andrew said, “but it doesn’t run. I want to learn to fix it.”
    Hansen picked up a rag and rubbed grease from his hands. “I’m not in the business of teaching. People pay me to fix.”
    “Couldn’t I watch you for a while?”
    Hansen scoffed. “I can tow your car in and fix it for you.”
    In the far corner a young man bent over a trash can and retched. Hansen expelled breath and tossed a wrench on a shelf.
    “Sorry,” the young man said, wiping his mouth.
    “Go home,” Hansen said. “You’re no help to me in this condition. But clean up after yourself first.”
    Even across the large garage, the smell of the man’s illness wafted as he picked up the trash can and stumbled toward a rear door.
    “Let me help you today.” Andrew pounced on the moment. “I’ll scrub down anything the boy touched and hand you any tool you need. Just let me watch as you work.”
    Hansen rustled through a toolbox and came up with a tool Andrew had no name for.
    “One hour,” Hansen said. “If by then you’ve proven you’re not an idiot, then you can stay the day.”
    “Thank you!” Andrew stepped into the work area.
    “Hang up your hat,” Hansen said. “It will only get in the way.”
    Andrew put a hand to the straw brim. He was not in the habit of doing without his hat. The Amish always wore their hats when they were out of their own homes. But he took it off his head and looked for a hook.
    Six hours later, Andrew squinted into the daylight again. He and Jurgen Hansen had gotten along well, and Andrew now carried a small carton with several small parts and tools, along with a general idea that the problem with his Model T was that something was obstructing the fuel going into the engine.

    Yonnie drove the milk wagon to the abandoned Johnson farm the next morning and guardedly turned into the lane that would lead to the outlying shed. It was the only place he could think to look for Andrew.
    Living alone, Andrew had decided it was easier to buy milk, butter, and cheese from the dairy than to keep a cow. Yonnie checked a couple of times a week on what Andrew needed. When Andrew’s milk box had no empty bottles in it that Tuesday morning, Yonnie had gone inside the house. Dishes in the sink had dried egg on them at least a day old. In Andrew’s bedroom, the bed looked undisturbed. It took Yonnie a few minutes to sort out what else looked wrong, but finally it dawned on him.
    Approaching the old Johnson barn, Yonnie knew he was right. Andrew’s horse was tethered with a long lead that allowed it to nibble the ground freely, swish its tail, and shake its mane. Yonnie left the milk wagon and pushed open the shed door.
    Andrew looked up. “Yonnie! How did you know where I was?”
    Yonnie stepped inside. “I stopped at your house. When I realized every lantern you own was missing, I could think of only one reason. You’ve been here all night fooling with that automobile.”
    Andrew grinned. “And I think I’ve figured it out.”
    “Are you hoping I will congratulate you?” Yonnie counted nine lanterns burning, set on shelves, barrels, the roof of the car, and flat surfaces beside the engine.
    “Think what you will,” Andrew said. “I’m pleased.”
    “If you knock over even one of these lanterns, you could burn the place down.”
    “I’m not going to knock anything over,” Andrew said. “Besides, I’m finished.”
    “You don’t deny that you were here all night?” Yonnie put out the lamp that made him most nervous because of its proximity to the only bale of hay left in the barn.
    “Since you’re here,” Andrew said, “it must be morning. So