I got a voicemail from the car dealership where my car is being repaired the other day. When I returned the phone call, the woman who has been helping me throughout this entire crazy experience — We’ll call her Charlotte because that’s her name. — said to me, “Miss Allie, did you know you had a fuel leak?”
“Um, no, ma’am, I didn’t. I guess that might explain something.”
“Well, have you ever smelled gas when you start your car?”
“Well, no, ma’am, but my car really hasn’t started in a couple days, and I never noticed anything leaking.”
“Okay, well, we’re going to have to get that fixed before I can figure out your no start.”
I called my daddy, who proceeded to ask me questions to which I had no answers, so I gave him Charlotte’s number. He called her, and then he called me back. He told me she’d call me with an update when she could get the part to fix my car (Monday), and then he told me to call him when I found something out. As he’s getting off the phone, he says, “Oh, she said your car started when it got there, by the way.”
Of course it did.
