Sam Miller

Sam is 66, with a solid build and a face carved by decades of heat, grit, and grease. His jumpsuit is always stained, and the faint smell of motor oil seems permanent. Once a road-tripper himself, Sam drifted into Newton years ago and never left. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s with a dry wit and a voice like gravel. There’s weariness in his posture, but also something grounded — like a man who’s found his place among engines and dust. He’s the kind of guy you trust to fix your car and never ask why you’re running.