Chapter 3 — Family Obligations

Kian

The Mercer Family Auto Shop was quiet except for the faint rhythm of the classic rock station playing on Harold’s old radio. The air carried the metallic tang of oil and rubber, a scent that had seeped into the walls over decades. Kian Mercer leaned against the worn workbench, wiping grease from his fingers with a rag. His other hand held his folded map, its creased edges marked with red pen. He stared at it, tracing the route he had outlined weeks ago—winding backroads, small towns, places he hadn’t yet explored but hoped to.

The sound of heavy boots on concrete pulled his focus. Harold Mercer, his father, stepped out from the office, clipboard in hand. His broad shoulders were slightly hunched, his overalls rumpled, and a streak of oil smudged his cheek. He paused briefly to rub his shoulder, his movements slower than they used to be.

“You fix the Thompson car yet?” Harold asked, his voice gruff but steady, though the weariness beneath it was hard to miss.

“Yeah, it’s done,” Kian replied, tossing the rag onto the workbench. “Left it out front for them to pick up.”

Harold nodded, squinting at the clipboard before glancing up at his son. “Good. Got a few more jobs lined up for tomorrow. That’ll keep us busy.”

The words hung in the air, as predictable as the hum of the old radio. Kian tucked the map into his back pocket, waiting for the tension he knew would come. Harold’s steps carried the weight of tradition, of expectation, and Kian felt the familiar battle rising in his chest.

“Dad,” he started, his tone careful, testing the waters. “I’ve been thinking more about the mobile repair business idea.”

The clipboard lowered slightly, Harold’s brow furrowing. “Kian, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know, but hear me out,” Kian said, keeping his voice even. “This could really work. There are people stuck on the road with no way to get here—single parents, older folks who can’t drive far. I could be out there, helping them. It’s not just about fixing cars; it’s meeting people where they are, making it easier for them.” He paused, gauging Harold’s reaction before continuing, “And it’s a chance for me to build something for myself. Something... more.”

Harold’s jaw tightened. His knuckles whitened around the clipboard, and he glanced briefly at the photo of his late wife on the wall. “You think this shop isn’t enough?” His voice was sharp but quieter now, carrying a weight that Kian couldn’t ignore. “This place fed our family. It’s kept us going for generations. It’s steady. Reliable. You’ve got everything you need right here.”

Kian fought to keep his frustration in check, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’m not saying it’s not enough. The shop is important—I know that. But starting this business doesn’t mean I’m abandoning it. It’s about building on everything you’ve taught me, everything Mom believed in. She always said we should dream bigger.”

Harold’s gaze hardened, though a flicker of something—fear, maybe—shimmered beneath his stern expression. He looked away, his voice dropping to a near growl. “Dreams don’t pay the bills, Kian. And what happens when this doesn’t work out? What happens when the shop needs you and you’re off chasing some highway adventure? This place doesn’t run itself.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Kian glanced at the faded photo of his mother. Her kind eyes and soft smile stared back, a silent reminder of the encouragement she’d always given him. The contrast between her hope and Harold’s rigidity tightened something in his chest.

“I’m not running away, Dad,” Kian said, his voice quieter but firm. “I’m trying to take what you’ve built and use it to create something new. Something that’s mine.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the radio and the clang of a distant tool. Harold’s shoulders sagged, just slightly, though his expression remained unyielding. “We’ll talk about it again later,” he muttered, turning toward the office. But his tone made it clear there wasn’t much room for conversation.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Kian alone in the shop. He pressed a hand against the workbench, steadying himself as frustration simmered beneath the surface. His gaze lingered on the photo of his mother again. She would’ve understood. She would’ve stood beside him, clipboard in hand, urging him to go after what he wanted.

The sharp click of light footsteps broke through his thoughts. He turned to see his younger sister, Alina, leaning against the doorway. Her curly black hair was pulled into a loose bun, her colorful scarf brightening the otherwise gray backdrop of the shop. The strap of her vintage camera hung across her shoulder, its chrome glinting faintly under the fluorescent lights.

“Let me guess,” she said, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Dad shut down the mobile repair idea again?”

Kian snorted softly, shaking his head. “Like clockwork.”

Alina stepped closer, her expression softening as she perched on the edge of the workbench. “You know he’s not trying to be difficult. He’s just scared of change. The shop’s all he’s ever known. And with Mom gone... it’s harder for him to imagine something different.”

“I get that,” Kian muttered, running a hand through his hair. “But it feels like he doesn’t even want to hear me out. I’ve been working on plans—routes, costs, how I’d handle emergencies. I’m not just winging it.”

Alina tilted her head, her gaze thoughtful. “Maybe he’s not ready to hear it all at once. You know how Dad is—he needs time to process. But you’ll get there. You’ve got the skills, the drive. And when you make it happen, I’ll be right there to document the whole thing with my camera.” Her grin returned, a playful light dancing in her eyes. “Your first customer, your first breakdown, your first Yelp review. It’s going to be great.”

Kian chuckled despite himself, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Thanks, Alina.”

“Anytime,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “Now, go do something to clear your head. You look like you’re about to punch a carburetor, and that’d be a waste of a perfectly good carburetor.”

He laughed again, shaking his head. “Noted.”

As Alina stood, she lifted her camera, snapping a quick photo of him before flashing a grin and disappearing around the corner. Kian’s smile lingered as he pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up in his hand, and his thumb hovered over the message app. He thought of Liora’s quiet smile, the way her hazel eyes softened when she talked about her writing, and the battered notebook she clutched like a lifeline. Something about her had stayed with him—something he couldn’t quite name but didn’t want to ignore.

For a moment, he hesitated. What if she thought it was weird? What if she didn’t respond? The doubts buzzed in his mind, but then he thought of her determination, the flicker of hope beneath her self-doubt. Before he could second-guess himself, he opened the app and typed out a quick message.

*Hey, it’s Kian. Thought you might want to see a better view of the town. Scenic drive?*

He stared at the words for a moment before hitting send. The message disappeared, and he tucked the phone back into his pocket. Grabbing a wrench from the workbench, he turned toward the car waiting in the bay, the sound of his tools filling the shop once more.

But this time, his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.