Emma was still, processing what had just happened. Mrs. Santos touched her shoulder. «Honey, unblock that valve again. I think now no one will come to bother anymore.»
Emma returned to the engine, redid the procedure. Ten minutes later, the Actros was running again. Jack tested, drove all around the station, went up the small access ramp, and accelerated hard. Nothing. Perfect engine.
He got out with tears in his eyes, hugged Emma again. «Forgive me, kid. I doubted you. Forgive me.»
But the victory lasted little. Jack got in the cab, turned on the complete dashboard to check the instruments before hitting the road. That’s when the red light came on. The oil temperature was rising too fast.
He cut the engine immediately and got out hurriedly. «Emma, there’s something wrong. The oil’s boiling.»
Emma felt the ground disappear under her feet. She ran back to the engine, stuck her hand underneath, and felt the heat coming from the crankcase. It was too hot, too hot in an abnormal way. She asked for Jack’s phone flashlight and shone it from below.
What she saw turned her stomach. There was oil leaking. It wasn’t a big leak, but it was constant. A thin stream coming from the crankcase gasket, and the level was low. Very low.
«When did you last check the oil level?» Emma asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Jack scratched his head. «About three days ago. It was normal. Why?»
Emma closed her eyes. «Because now it’s critical, and if you start this engine and go on the road, it’ll seize in less than 30 miles.»
The trooper, who was still there doing his report against Matthew, approached. «So the problem wasn’t solved.»
Emma shook her head. «The injector problem was, but there’s another one. The vibration from the blocked engine for those two days must have loosened the crankcase gasket. The oil’s leaking, and without enough oil, the engine will seize.»
Mrs. Santos continued sitting on the stone, watching. She said nothing, just continued taking notes. Jack panicked.
«And now, how much does a crankcase gasket cost for this truck?»
Emma knew the answer. She knew because she’d researched prices for big truck parts when she dreamed of working in a real garage.
«The gasket alone costs about $400, but you need to lift the truck with an industrial hydraulic jack, unscrew the entire crankcase, clean the surface, install the new gasket, apply specific sealant, wait for it to dry, and screw everything back.»
She did the math aloud. «It’s at least six hours of work with complete tools, and you need new oil to refill, about four gallons. In total, with the part and labor, it’s about $2,500.»
Jack sat on the ground, head in his hands. «I don’t have that, Emma. I spent what I had paying the other mechanics, who solved nothing. I only have $700 in my wallet, and this load of fruit is rotting.»
His voice broke. «If I don’t deliver by noon in Houston, the buyer cancels the order. Damage of $18,000. I’m gonna lose everything, kid. I’m gonna lose the truck. I’m gonna lose the contract. I’m gonna lose the house I put up as collateral at the bank.»
He started crying. A 50-year-old man, tattooed trucker, crying like a child.
Emma looked at the sky. It was still dark, but the horizon was starting to lighten. It must have been about 5 a.m. She had three hours to solve this before Jack’s deadline expired.
The trooper put away his notebook. «Listen, I have to go. My shift’s ending, but good luck to you.» He got in the Peugeot and left.
Only three remained: Emma, Jack, and Mrs. Santos. Emma looked at the old van parked nearby. She approached and opened the back door.
It was filled with jewelry boxes, but underneath there were other things: old tools, leftover materials that Mrs. Santos must have been taking to the market. And there, in the back, half-hidden, there was a crocodile-type hydraulic jack—old, rusty, but functional.
Emma looked at Mrs. Santos. «Mom, will you lend me this jack?»
Mrs. Santos got up from the stone, approached, looked at the jack, looked at Emma. «I’ll lend it to you, but are you going to manage to lift a truck this size with this old jack?»
Emma wasn’t sure, but it was the only chance. «I’ll try.»
Jack stood up, wiped his face. «Emma, even if you manage to lift the truck, you don’t have the gasket. You don’t have the oil. You have nothing.»
Emma knew it. And that’s when the craziest idea came to her mind. She looked at the horizon, thinking, then looked at Jack.
«Mr. Jack, do you trust me?»
Jack nodded. «After everything I’ve seen, yes.»
Emma breathed deeply. «Then give me two hours, just two. If I don’t solve it, you call the tow truck and take it to the official garage in Tulsa.»
Emma took the hydraulic jack from the van, dragged it to the truck, positioned it under the chassis, and started pumping. The jack was old, hard, and squeaked, but it worked. Slowly, very slowly, the truck started to rise.
Emma pumped until her arm was exhausted. Fifteen minutes of pure effort. When she got enough height, she wedged a piece of wood she found in the station’s trash to secure it.
Then she lay on the ground and slid her body under the truck. The vision was claustrophobic; tons of metal above her, supported by an old jack and a plank. If it fell, it would crush her like a cockroach.
Jack got nervous. «Emma, get out of there. It’s way too dangerous.»
Emma didn’t come out. She was looking at the crankcase gasket up close now. The leak was in a specific corner, three bolts. The gasket rubber had dried out in that spot.
She had two options: try to reseal with some kind of improvised sealant or replace the entire gasket. But she didn’t have a new gasket. No industrial sealant. She had nothing.
Emma came out from under the truck and went to her backpack that she’d left near the van. She opened it and searched. There was an old T-shirt, an empty water bottle, a piece of soap, and her father’s Swiss Army knife.
Emma took the knife, looked at it. It was the most precious tool she had, not for its quality but for its meaning. It was the last thing her father had held before dying. The name Pete was engraved on the handle.
Emma had carried it for nine years like a sacred relic. She’d sworn never to lose it, never to trade it, never to lend it.
Mrs. Santos approached. «Honey, what are you thinking?»
Emma looked at her, then at the knife. «Mrs. Santos, do you have glue? Any type of strong glue?»
Mrs. Santos searched in the van, found a tube of super glue, old, half-used, and gave it to Emma. «I only have this.»
Emma took it. Then she took her father’s knife and opened the largest blade. It was carbon steel, good, resistant. She breathed deeply. What she was about to do was madness, but it was the only chance.
Emma went back under the truck and started unscrewing the three bolts from the corner where the gasket was leaking. She removed them, cleaned the surface with the old T-shirt, and scraped off the dried rubber residue.
Then she took the knife. With the tip of the blade, she started cutting a thin piece of rubber from the sole of her own holed sneaker. She cut carefully, molding it to the shape of the gasket corner.
It was complete improvisation, System D elevated to art. Jack was lying on the ground outside watching.
«Emma, that won’t hold.»
Emma didn’t answer. She glued the piece of rubber to the gasket surface with the super glue and waited for it to dry. Three minutes, five minutes. The sun was starting to rise. Now, orange light was cutting the horizon.
Emma tested the glue. It had dried. She put the three bolts back, tightened hard using the wrench she’d taken from Jack’s toolbox.
She came out from under the truck sweaty, dirty with oil from head to toe. She lowered the jack slowly. The truck descended.
Emma looked at her father’s knife. The blade was bent at the tip from cutting the hard rubber. It was almost useless now. She’d sacrificed the most precious tool she had.
Mrs. Santos was still watching. She wrote something else in her notebook. Emma put the broken knife in her bag, trying not to think too much about it.
She looked at Jack. «Now the oil’s missing. The engine’s low. If you start it like this, it’ll seize anyway.»
Jack opened the truck’s cargo compartment. There were crates and crates of fruit: mangoes, papayas, watermelons. Lower, under the fruit, there were jerry cans of reserve diesel.
«I have diesel, but I don’t have engine oil,» Jack said.
Emma thought fast. Mrs. Santos’ van. «What oil?»
Mrs. Santos shook her head. «I had the oil changed last week. There must be about three quarts left in the engine.»
Emma looked at her, embarrassed to ask. But Mrs. Santos understood before she spoke.
«You want to take the oil from my van to put in the truck?»
Emma nodded, ashamed. «Just a little, Mrs. Santos. Just to complete the minimum level. About a gallon and a half. The van will still make it to Houston.»
Mrs. Santos stayed silent, looked at the van, looked at Emma, looked at the notebook, then sighed. «Do what you have to do, honey.»
Emma took a hose, improvised a siphon, and started draining the oil from the van’s crankcase. It was used oil, dirty, but it still worked. She drained a gallon and a half into plastic bottles she found in the trash.
Then she went to the truck, opened the oil reservoir cap, and poured everything in, quart by quart. When she finished, she checked the dipstick. It was at minimum, just barely, but it was there.
Emma looked at Jack. «Start it.»
Jack got in the cab. His hand was shaking when he took the key. He turned it. The engine started, smooth, firm.
Emma lay on the ground again, looked underneath. No leak. The improvisation had held, at least for now.
Jack got out, hugged Emma for the third time that dawn. This time, he was crying with gratitude.
«You saved my life, kid. You saved my family. I don’t know how to thank you.»
He took from his wallet the $700 he had. «Take it all. I know it’s not enough, but it’s all I have.»