“Top dead center,” my dad says, Sliding out his feeler gauge. It’s a straight-eight, Valve cover tossed into the weeds Off the highway. My dad’s got a can of beer in one hand, This withering metal flower in the other. The hood’s up and we’re getting drunk. My dad’s got the Buick’s hood propped up on a bough He brought in last night with the firewood we cut. “Top dead center,” he says. I turn the propeller at the front of the engine. “Little more,” my dad says. “Come on,” he says. “Top dead center. We’re real close,” he says. “Just a smidge more,” he says. I stand, take a hit of my beer. “We’re real close,” he says. “How close?” I say. “Shit,” he says, squeezing winter-rawed forefinger to thumb. “Like this close,” he says. This car, I think. I take a hit of my beer. This car.