Lars looked at Elias—really looked at him. He saw the grease under the younger man's fingernails and the way he checked his watch, likely counting down until his next clock-in. In the world of St. Paul subprime auto, the car wasn't just a machine; it was a lifeline.

He wasn't just buying a car; he was buying his time back, forty dollars at a time.

Elias stood in front of a 2012 Chevy Impala. It was the color of a bruised plum, but the tires had tread and the heater hummed like a contented cat. He didn't have a credit score—not a real one, anyway. A medical debt from three years ago had seen to that, turning his financial history into a "No-Go" zone for every major dealership from Roseville to Woodbury.

"I’ve got eight hundred," Elias said, his breath hitching in the frost. "And a steady shift at the warehouse in Eagan. I just need to get there without the light rail taking two hours of my life every morning."

"Eight hundred down," Lars grunted, gesturing toward the office. "Forty bucks a week, every Friday. You miss a payment, the GPS kill-switch kicks in, and I’m sending the tow truck. Clear?" "Crystal," Elias said.

"She’s a tank," Lars said, patting the Impala’s hood. "Built for the 94 during a blizzard."