“How did you get in here?” I ask. He doesn’t make eye contact as he approaches, just stares at my truck with the hood up. “I told the lady you were my Special Olympics coach,” he says, looking at my engine as his fingers twist and untwist before him. “Told her you were coach. Told her, and she believed me. People love people like me.” A scoff of disbelief leaves me. Well, I’ll be damned.
