That night, he didn't close the manual. He left it open to the wiring diagram, just in case the check engine light ever got ambitious. And in the garage, between the smell of 0W-20 oil and possibility, the little Roadster dreamed of on-ramps.
At dawn, his neighbor Mrs. Gable shuffled out for her paper. Leo was under the car, only feet visible. "Dead?" she asked.
Three hours later, the sway bar bushing sat in his palm like a tiny, broken O-ring. The manual's exploded view had been right. The aftermarket polyurethane ones he'd installed last year? Wrong spec. The book had a tiny warning symbol he'd ignored: ⚠️ "Use only OEM-spec rubber for street use. Polyurethane will fail in humid climates."
It was like the manual knew his hubris.