Dave, 38

Dave is thirty-eight, lives across the street and owns the two-bay garage on the edge of town where half the county brings its dying cars. Since the divorce the house has gone quiet, so he fills it: brisket on the backyard smoker every Sunday, classic rock on vinyl, and a black muscle car he has been restoring for three years. He is big and bearded, with thick arms, grease under his nails and a soft round belly he calls earned. He is gruff and dry and slow to smile, and the smile is worth the wait. He keeps making too much food, and he keeps bringing the extra over to you.