By late twenty fifteen, the bank had run out of patience. A stack of foreclosure notices sat on my desk like an obituary for a business that had carried my family for generations. A corporation called Titan Auto Group offered to buy the property for just enough to erase my debt, and after months of fighting a losing battle I signed a preliminary agreement that would close Fisher Auto Works forever.
On December eighteenth of that year, I stood alone in the garage surrounded by empty tool cabinets and oil stained concrete that echoed with memories of better days. The clock on the wall read four forty seven in the afternoon, and I knew that in thirteen minutes I would lock the doors for the last time. I rested my hand on the cold metal of my workbench and whispered goodbye to a place that had been more than a job.
That was when three strangers walked through the open bay door.