Chapter Seventeen
Fox
“What if he changes his mind?”
I paused mid-button press, my attention pulled away from the tiny screen.
I followed the cord connecting my Game Boy to the second console, then up to the shadow that had spoken to me.
The Dodge Challenger wasn’t looking at his Game Boy; instead, he stared out toward the horizon, where the sun had only just begun to push pale gold light over the tops of the distant buildings.
I knew what was bothering him. Lai had planted a seed of hope in the old car, one he was unwilling to nurture yet.
That hope had been dropped into soil that had been driven over for years, packed down by broken promises.
I could see it in the way the Challenger held himself, tense and uncertain, like he didn’t know whether to trust in the possibility or brace for disappointment.
“He won’t,” I said finally, returning my gaze to the screen, though my focus wasn’t really on the game anymore. “Al trusts him. And if Al trusts him, then he’s good for it.”
The Challenger didn’t answer. The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable; I finished the linked Pokémon battle on instinct, guiding my Gengar through the motions without really thinking about what I was doing.
When the victory screen flashed, I switched the Game Boy off, the tiny click sounding louder in the stillness of the morning.
It was time to put the consoles away, hidden in our glove boxes, but I didn’t want to move yet. The morning air was cool, brushing softly against my hood, and the sunlight warmed my roof.
“Hey,” I said, leaning slightly toward the Challenger. “You know, I never asked your name.”
The other shadow glanced over, his eyes focusing on me. “My name? I’m a Dodge Challenger R/T 426 V8 HEMI 4-speed manual.” He said it carefully, like he wasn’t entirely sure whether that was the right answer, or if the question had a deeper meaning.
“Yeah, I know that,” I said gently. “But do you have another name? What did your owner call you?”
The Dodge’s shape flickered, his shadow thinning, becoming translucent as he thought; he looked like his memories were pulling him apart, and for a moment, I worried I’d pried too deeply, breaking something that hadn’t had time to heal yet.
The silence stretched long enough that I regretted asking. Then, slowly and carefully, the Challenger pulled himself back together. His gaze lifted to the sky again, still holding the pause, keeping me on the edge of my hood.
“My old owner called me Ghost.”
“Ghost,” I repeated, testing it. “It suits you.”
I mean, it wasn’t the most creative name I’d ever heard.
In terms of imagination, it was a bit like turning a Chevrolet Impala into a low-rider; cool, but hardly surprising.
But it was a good name, and I wasn’t planning on upsetting a car already up to their wheel-wells in their wallowing.
“Shall we get settled for the day, Ghost?” I asked, holding up my Game Boy.
The other shadow smiled just a little, then froze, looking past me towards the gates. I spun to look, eyes wide.
A large transport truck was backing slowly into the lot, her diesel engine so powerful I could feel it vibrating through the ground. Behind her, a smaller tow truck followed, rattling and clanking cheerfully.
Human workers jumped down, stretching, grabbing tools, already moving with the practiced rhythm of people who’d done this hundreds of times before, as the lot’s owner stepped out to meet them, pointing toward the back rows of cars, giving instructions.
“Yeah, that entire row back there; the blue Ranger, the Mustang, the Dodge– I’ve marked the ones going to auction, just check the windscreens before loading them,” he ordered, and I perked up, glancing at the white paint-pen scrawl on my glass. Auction–we were going to auction!
I grinned, turning to Ghost. He sat perched on his trunk now, visibly tense, fingers gripping the metal edge as he strained to see what was happening.
“Look; temp tires,” he said, pointing at the workers unloading equipment. “Do you think those are for me?”
“All the other cars still have their tires,” I answered, feeling something warm settle inside me. “And you have the mark on your glass, too. We’re going to auction together.”
***
The transport took almost an entire day, and I behaved the whole time, Al.
You would’ve been proud. I didn’t scare the workers when they rolled me onto the trailer.
One of the apprentices — barely more than a kid — drove me up the ramp, too cock-sure, pressing down too hard on my accelerator; ignoring the chance to speed, I softened my steering slightly, making the movement smoother and easier for him.
No driving into crowds today; not if I wanted to go to the auction.
Straps tightened around me, digging into my frame. The wind battered my paint as we drove, knocking loose the dust that had settled into every crevice while I waited on the lot. I endured it quietly, reminding myself that patience was part of being good.
But patience had never been what I was built for.
I was made for movement, for speed, for the rush of asphalt beneath my tires. Sitting still, bound in place, felt wrong on a fundamental level.
Every mile dragged by slower than the last. When we finally arrived, the auction yard was already mostly full. Rows of vehicles stretched across the lot, each one waiting, silent and tense. Some gleamed with fresh polish, others looked like they’d barely survived the journey.
The humans parked me among them, then they left, and I was back to waiting again.
At least I wasn’t alone; Ghost was right off the transport behind me, gingerly rolling to a stop beside me, looking just a little bit goofy perched on top of far-too-small temporary wheels.
His undersized wheels didn’t make him any less jaw-dropping; even before he’d stopped moving, people had noticed him and were moving close to look him over.
That didn’t come as a surprise; A 1970 Dodge Challenger always drew attention without trying.
With his wide stance and aggressive lines, he looked powerful even sitting still.
Muscle carved out of steel. The humans approached quickly, their hands running along his paint, tugging at trim, lifting edges to check underneath.
Fingers pressed into panels, testing, judging.
Ghost withdrew.
I felt it, even from where I sat. His shadow shrank deeper into the car, uncomfortable with their attention. They touched him like he already belonged to them.
No. I wasn’t letting anyone but Lai have him. Ghost was already spoken for! Without thinking, I blasted my horn, loud and sharp, cutting through the excited chatter.
Heads snapped toward me, but I didn’t care. I honked again, louder, refusing to stop until they backed away.
One man frowned and walked over, clearly irritated. He grabbed my handle, trying to open my door.
Locked.
“Who’s got the keys for the busted Mustang?” He called out as I kept honking like an angry alarm. Then, without warning, he slammed his fist into my hood.
Pain rippled through my frame, sharp and sudden. My horn cut off as I flinched, the fresh dent catching the light immediately.
“Someone get the keys so I can pop the hood and disconnect the battery. No one wants that noise going off all night. Must be faulty wiring.”
I froze, stunned by his audacity, my rage bubbling to the surface. Before I could react, though, the man suddenly stumbled back with a cry, landing hard on his ass, hollering and cursing as I stared in shock at Ghost.
The Challenger had jerked forward just enough to slam into the man; thousands of pounds of steel versus human arrogance had definitely gone in Ghost’s favor, and he crept back into his spot as though he had never moved at all.
But I’d seen it, even if none of the humans had; they were too busy helping their fallen comrade to see the Challenger’s shadow drop a wink at me from his driver’s seat.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I knew in that moment that something had shifted between us. I had defended him, and he’d returned the favor, violently.
Lai better have money, because Ghost wasn’t going to be cheap, and I wasn’t going home without him.