There was the black american (there are times when credit needs to be given where it's due, though I generally prefer to be color blind) who came along when we were trying to get the van going, still believing that the problem must be the starter. BIG guy. Girth larger than height. He used my jack to raise the front of the van, crawled under, and shorted out the starter. I could see the sparks flying. But it still wouldn't start. He said that meant the engine had seized, which I'm sure is correct, and told Rick what he may be able to do about it. I offered him money, but he said words to the effect that he would be rewarded. So I just smiled at him a lot.
And what would I have done if Rick hadn't agreed to go? I don't know. He left a house full of kids (one daughter died of cancer last year leaving 9 and 3 year old boys - other daughter has a 4-month-old just released from the hospital because they messed up the operation which was supposed to fix her) to be gone for 3 hours. And *he* was going to offer the money to the impromptu mechanic!
And the spare tire held! I mean, how much more miracle can you ask for than that?