I didn’t care about my nice light blue blouse. I didn’t care about the grease on the concrete. I sat down, swung my legs around, and slid right under the front end of my F-150.

It took me exactly forty-five seconds to find the problem.

There was fresh, wet fluid sprayed all over the transmission pan. It looked like transmission fluid, but when I touched it and smelled it, it was just standard household lubricant. Someone had literally sprayed it out of an aerosol can to make it look like a massive leak.

Even worse, the electrical connector to the transmission shift solenoid had been unplugged. It was hanging there, completely loose.

I knew exactly what they did. They unplugged the sensor to trigger the dashboard warning light, sprayed some oil on the pan, and waited for me to panic.

I rolled myself back out from under the truck and stood up. I had a big black smudge of grease right on the shoulder of my blouse, but I didn’t care one bit.

The service advisor had finally caught up to me. He was red in the face.

“Ma’am, you can’t be back here,” he said, his voice a little high.

“I found the leak,” I said.

“Right, like I said, it needs a full rebuild,” he started.

“No,” I said, pointing down at the undercarriage. “What it needs is for you to plug my shift solenoid back in. And maybe a rag to wipe off the WD-40 your boy just sprayed all over my pan.”

The entire garage went dead quiet. Two other mechanics working on a sedan a few bays over stopped what they were doing to look.

The advisor stared at me. His mouth opened a little bit, but nothing came out.

“I spent twenty-two years keeping heavy armor moving in the Army, son,” I said, keeping my voice nice and level. “I can rebuild this transmission in my sleep. Do you really want to keep lying to me?”

He looked at the young tech, then back at me. The red in his face turned into a deep, embarrassed purple.

“I… there must have been a misunderstanding,” he mumbled.

“There sure was,” I said. “You misunderstood who you were trying to rob.”

I reached down, grabbed the connector, and snapped it back into place myself. It made a loud, satisfying click.

“Now,” I said, wiping my hands on a shop rag. “Bring my truck down off the lift.”

The manager came out of his glass office about thirty seconds later. He tried to offer me a free oil change and a bunch of apologies, but I wasn’t having any of it. I told him I’d be reporting them to the corporate office and the Better Business Bureau before my lunch got cold.

I drove out of that parking lot without paying them a single dime.