Leo ignored him. He was lying on his back in the driver’s footwell, a headlamp strapped to his forehead, contorted like a yoga instructor having a seizure. He felt the carpet lining. It was smooth. Then, near the parking brake pedal, he felt a seam .
The GL450 inhaled. The dash lights swept through their start-up sequence like a waking panther. The headlights leveled themselves with a quiet whir. The left rear turn signal blinked once, sharply, as if to say, Sorry for the drama .
Hank handed him a replacement from the dusty tackle box he called a tool kit. Leo clicked it in.
“It’s not the bulb,” he muttered, wiping grease onto his jeans. “It’s the brain.”
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