Sunday afternoons were usually the quietest part of my week. Lawson Customs sat closed behind its roller doors, the phones stayed mercifully silent and for a few precious hours I could walk through the workshop without thinking about repair schedules, invoices or whether Ben had accidentally installed something backwards.
I had just finished carrying a basket of clean laundry upstairs to the apartment when I noticed something unusual through the front window. A pickup truck sat in the parking lot. Behind it was a small enclosed trailer.
George Miller leaned against the driver's door with his baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and a grin that immediately made me suspicious and I looked at the clock.
"You're here on a Sunday." I said and he looked up as I walked downstairs.
"I am." He
