Wearing one wing while working on the other, the half-fae unrolled copper mesh over the torn webbing. It sprang back, slicing her hand. Cursing, she knocked it to the floor.

“Pitching a hissy fit.”

“Been running around like a chicken with her head cut off since Buford left the shop.”

Ignoring the two gossips, the half-fae retrieved the mesh.

“Could ask PJ for help.”

“PJ won’t hit a lick at a snake, nothing but talk outta him.”

A bedraggled satyr stumbled into the shop, took a minute, then went for a closer look.

Then the colloquialisms became more colorful.

“He’s not gonna try fixing it, is he?”

“Better not. Mood she’s in, he gets too close, she’ll slap the fool out of him.”

“Mhm, knock him clear into next week.”

“Even if he could, which he can’t, he ain’t got the sense God gave a goat.”

“Bless his heart, talking out the side of his head half the time.”

The satyr seemed to think better of it and steered clear.

“Looks like he’s been chewed up and spit out tonight.”

“Tomcatting again. Got caught in a gully-washer.”

The half-fae situated the repaired wing over her shoulder.

“It’s hanging all cattywampus.”

A young man with broad shoulders entered the shop, shaking his head. “Not again.”

He shooed the pair of mockingbirds off the hood of his truck and went to help. Squawking, they dropped ballast and disappeared into the rafters where one muttered, “Buford’s momma sure didn’t teach him no manners.”