"And here—" Sasha flipped the page again, enthusiasm spilling out of her voice. "—hidden compartment for weapons, under the floor. This section—solar panels on the roof, batteries inside, so I won't run out of power. And—oh!—don't forget the water filtration system."
The man stared at her, deadpan. ". . . Lady, this is a cash-in-transit armored truck, not a luxury RV."
Sasha leaned over the counter, eyes gleaming. "Then make it both."
The mechanic groaned, rubbing his temples. "You apocalypse weirdos are all the same . . . wasting your money on these . . . things. Those apocalyptic shows are just fantasy!"
"Excuse me," Sasha said, affronted. "I am not a weirdo. I am a visionary. Big difference. Don't forget the defensive things I put outside the car."
The mechanic squinted at the blueprint Sasha had sketched out on a crumpled notepad. He rubbed his oily hands on his jumpsuit, muttering like a man already regretting his career choices.
