“Something reliable, something that runs,” I said.
I was vague, but I was told the mechanic was smart, experienced. I thought he’d handle it. Big mistake.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Sparks flew as my front end careened off the guardrail.
This clunker was on its last legs. The steering was shot. The struts, don’t ask. I just knew that I couldn’t keep the damn thing on the road.
Another curve, another sideswipe, another shriek of metal.
My hands strangled the wheel, my knuckles bone white.
Next time I need a getaway vehicle, I’ll be more specific.
No milk trucks.
The Weekday One Hundred 