Brian and Winch are wrestling a rusted-out 1932 Ford back to life in his uncle's shed when Tammy shows up.

The sound reached them first—an electric whine over loose stone, quick and high, coming fast. They glanced toward the open doors. Out in the long drive, an off-road standup scooter rocketed over washboards and potholes like it didn't believe in them. Its fat tires loped; the front fork compressed and rebounded; the rear shock soaked up the ruts with a clean, springy poise. Tammy leaned into it like a surfer, elbows loose, weight forward.

At the threshold she grabbed a fistful of brake. The front settled; the rear kicked sideways, sliding into a controlled skid that threw a rooster tail of pebbles and dust straight through the doorway. Grit pattered across the concrete and over their boots; a soft brown cloud rolled in and made them cough.

Winch waved his hand in front of his face. "Ever heard of knocking?"

Tammy popped the stand with a heel and killed the motor. She tugged off her helmet. At her neck hung her steampunk goggles—brass-rimmed, peppered with tiny rivets, with multiple sets of lenses mounted on rotating discs at each side. She could click through clear, amber, tinted, or near-black with a twist of the side knobs, giving her the look of a junior airship engineer who'd wandered into the wrong century. No jacket today—the heat pressed the afternoon flat. She wore a black tank top and camouflage shorts over her usual black leggings, and goth boots with bat-wings sewn into the sides that clunked when she stepped off. She looked pleased with the dust she'd kicked up getting there.

Brian stared. "Are those the clothes you wear when tearing apart an old car?"

"These?" She glanced down. "Field-tested." She thumbed the goggles. "And these are for when it gets interesting."

They stopped at the reason they were all there: the '32 Ford. Even under dust it managed to look stubborn. The floor looked like a map of forgotten lakes. The seat was bones.

Tammy's face tightened. "Worse than the picture made it look."

"We got the gas tank and lines out," Brian said, pointing to the bench. "No major drama. But the seat bolts are toast. Winch just keeps rounding them."

Winch tapped the mangled heads. "They're stripped. Nothing to grab."

Tammy leaned in, squinting at the hardware. "Want me to take a crack at it?"

"Not sure how to get them out," Brian said. "What do you have in mind?"

Tammy stood and dusted her hands. "We need to break the rust's hold. Got a blowtorch around here?"

Brian looked at her. "You know how to operate an acetylene torch?"

Tammy twisted the side knobs on her goggles and clicked the amber lenses down with a crisp snap. "Mr. Tier said I was his best welding student. I mean, who else is going to make sure the school's shop class doesn't burn down?"

The Quantum Mechanic: Time Layers.