What he’d been thinking about, specifically, was the flatbed and three other trucks he’d identified in the yard that were in similar condition, salvageable with work without requiring the kind of money he didn’t have. There was also a service vehicle, an older heavy-duty pickup with a crane arm for roadside recovery that looked like it might run with a new battery, some work on the hydraulic line, and about 40 hours of attention. He’d spent two evenings looking up parts prices. He’d talked to a mechanic friend of his, Carlos Reyes, who owed him a favor going back 5 years and who agreed to come out and give him an honest assessment. Carlos showed up on a Tuesday morning with his own tools and a thermos of coffee and walked the four trucks without saying much for about an hour. “The flatbed’s the best of them,” he said finally. “Needs a rebuilt fuel system, new rear brake assembly, tires, obviously. Call it 3,000 in parts if you’re doing most of the labor.” “I can do most of the labor.” Carlos looked at him sideways. “You sure? I know you can wrench, but this is—” “My dad taught me on trucks like these,” Mason said. “I’m sure.”
Carlos nodded slowly. “The recovery pickup is actually not bad. The crane arm is sound. Hydraulic line needs replacing. The pump seal’s gone and it needs a full service. 2,000 in parts, maybe less if you can source some of it second-hand.” He drank some of his coffee. “The other two are longer shots, not impossible, but longer.” “So, 4 to 5,000 in parts for all four vehicles plus labor.” “Something like that.” “What are you thinking?” Mason looked at the road, the state road that ran in front of the property, and beyond it, in his mind, the 6 miles to the I-40 interchange. “Roadside assistance, recovery, truck parking, emergency services for long-haul drivers.” Carlos considered that. “You’ve got no crew.” “I’ve got Ethan.” “Ethan’s 20.” “He’s also better with his hands than most 30-year-olds I know, and he works until something’s done.” Carlos turned and looked at the partial gravel area near the front of the property. “You’d need to finish that at minimum. Give guys somewhere to actually park.” “I know.” “The shed needs at minimum a temporary patch on the roof, or it’s going to collapse on something important.” “I know.” Carlos scratched the back of his neck. “You’re not asking my opinion on the business plan, are you? You’re asking if the trucks are fixable.” “That’s right.” He finished his coffee. “They’re fixable,” he said.
Mason sold his personal vehicle on a Thursday. It was a 3-year-old pickup, his daily driver, reliable, paid off. He’d bought it when the job at Trail Boss was going well. A private buyer paid him 9,400 for it, cash, in the parking lot of a gas station in Gallup. He took the money to the bank, deposited it, and then he called Linda. “I want you to run the numbers one more time,” he said. “Not whether it works. I know you don’t think it works. I need to know what the minimum viable version looks like.” She was quiet for a moment. “You sold the truck.” “Yes.” Another pause. Then, “Okay.” He could hear her shifting into a different mode, not cheerful, but focused. “Walk me through what you’re planning.” He did, all of it. The four vehicles, the parking area, the emergency roadside service, the repair center concept that could come later if the first phase held. He walked through his rough estimates on parts, labor, potential revenue from parking fees, and service calls. She asked questions, hard ones. The kind that required actual answers rather than optimism. He had most of them. The ones he didn’t, he admitted he didn’t.
At the end, she was quiet for about 30 seconds. “Here’s what I’ll say,” she said. “The math is not impossible. It’s very tight, and it requires almost everything to go right in the first 90 days, which things rarely do, but it’s not impossible.” She paused. “You know you’re going to have to put in the kind of hours that are going to be brutal, right? This isn’t—there’s no version of this where it’s manageable from the beginning.” “I’m not looking for manageable.” “Okay.” She seemed to accept that. “And Ethan’s actually committed to this? Cuz I know he’s your son, and I know you love him, but I’ve met Ethan, and he’s 20 years old, and 20-year-olds change their minds.” “He won’t.” “You’re sure?” “He’s more stubborn than I am,” Mason said, “and I’m pretty damn stubborn.” Linda actually laughed at that, a short, real sound. “Yes. You are.” She paused. “You know you’re still going to have to deal with the bank timeline. Even if everything works perfectly in the first phase, 90 days is not enough to generate the kind of revenue that services 200 grand in debt.” “I know. I’m going to call them. Try to negotiate a deferment or restructure. Show them there’s an active operation.” “That might work. Banks don’t love foreclosures, they’re expensive.” “That’s what I’m counting on.” “Mason,” she said. “One more question.” “Yeah.” “If this doesn’t work, if in 90 days it’s clear that it’s not generating what you need, are you prepared to cut your losses then?” He looked at the notebook on the kitchen table, 3 weeks of notes and rough drawings and parts lists and math. “Ask me again in 90 days,” he said.
He told Ethan that night. His son was at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal at 8:30 in the evening, which was classic Ethan. He’d been like that since he was 12, keeping hours that had no particular logic but seemed to work for him somehow. He looked up when Mason sat down across from him with two cups of coffee. “You went to the bank?” Ethan asked. “Called them. Got a meeting next week.” Mason pushed one of the cups across. “I also called Linda and Carlos came and looked at the trucks.” Ethan set his spoon down. He was listening the way he