Inside, a mechanic named Dez looked up from a tyre balancing machine. He had the calm, tired eyes of someone who’d seen every shade of automotive disaster.
That night, Tony parked in his driveway in Moorebank, left the engine running, and listened. No tick. No knock. Just the quiet hum of a cooling system working exactly as it should.
The stench hit Tony first—sweet, burnt, and cloying, like a forgotten kettle left to die on the stove. His 2004 Commodore was wheezing at the lights on Nuwarra Road, a thin plume of steam curling from under the bonnet. The temperature gauge was pinned in the red.
“Coolant system?” Dez asked, not really a question.