The first time I ever picked up a socket wrench, I knew I had something special. It just felt right, like a part of my hand I never knew I had.

Pa was a little disappointed that he got a girl instead of a boy, but that didn't stop him from carting me along to every job he got –– though there were few enough. My Pa is a genius. He can fix anything: carpentry, engineering, mechanics, they all come natural to him. He says I've got natural talent, too, but believe me, compared to him I can't do squat. Someday, maybe, I'll be as good as him, but I'm still young.

This isn't a fanfic. This is my story, my real, true-to-life story, though the names have been changed.

I'm from the South –– that's where the accent comes from. All of us here at WSRY have it –– except for Doc and Sarah, of course; they’re from fancy big cities far away from here.

Boss doesn't really understand the ins and outs of the machines, but he knows enough to stay out of my engine room. Most of the time, that is. I've learned to keep my explanations as simple as possible for him. Any time of day or night, I can be called to work when I'm needed. Boss knows he can depend on me, and I never want to let him down. I can be a mite messy when I’m working, I’ll admit, but how’m I s’posed to get anything done if I can’t see it all?

The engine room –– where the transmitter and wires and doohickeys are -- is my home. I feel more comfortable there than any other place I've ever been; even got a cot in the back, believe it or not, the engine has soothed me to sleep a time or two. She is the heart of this place, and I treat her just like I would any other crew member. We have our language, the engine and I; I know how crazy that sounds, but it's the God's-honest truth. She's startin' to show her age, but she runs better when she gets a word or two of encouragement.

There's a rhythm to what I do. My hands, I’ve been told, move lightning fast when I’m working on machines; they seem to know exactly where to go, what to twea