He hates changing tires.

Fucking piece of shit truck, always breaking down--Jack glares up at the still white-hot sun and wipes some sweat from off his forehead, leaving a dark smear of grease like a bruise above his eye

and then someone pushes him, wiry grass scratching his cheek and hands when he tries to push himself back up, too surprised to even fight back.

Seems he's been caught out again.