A warm breeze flows across his face. He shakes himself and returns to his work, trying to get that shaft to budge, but it… Squeak. Mads stares. The shaft gives way to his touch as if it were made of soft cheese, bending perfectly. He peers at the shaft. He realizes that what he’s done—however in the hells it is that he’s done it—is very bad, bad enough that the whole damn auto might not work.
