I went out to the garage to fire up “The Beast.” That’s my 1978 pickup. It’s not just a truck; it’s a time capsule. No computers, no plastic engine covers, just American steel and the smell of raw gasoline. It was the last thing I had that felt real.
I turned the key. Chug-chug-chug… click.
Nothing.
I tried again. The engine whined and died.
“No, no, no,” I pleaded. I popped the hood and climbed out into the rain. I stared at the engine block. My hands, arthritic and stiff, fumbled with the air cleaner wing nut. I used to be able to tear this engine down blindfolded. Now? I couldn’t even stop my hands from shaking.
I slammed the hood down in frustration, slipping on the wet concrete. I grabbed the fender to steady myself, feeling useless. Absolutely useless.
I spun around. It was the pink-haired kid. His beat-up sedan was parked on the street in front of my house. He was standing in my driveway under a jagged umbrella.
“What are you doing here?” I snapped. “Stalking me?”
“No, sir. My car overheated. Waiting for it to cool down.” He pointed at my truck. “Sounds like you flooded the carburetor. Smell the gas?”
“I know what a flooded carb is,” I grumbled. “I’ve been driving this truck since before your parents met.”
