Chapter 11: The Tow Yard

I went to the tow yard.

I told myself I was going to listen and say nothing.

It was nearly dark when I got there.

The lot sat behind a chain-link fence with floodlights on poles, and rows of wrecked cars sat in the gravel under a thin layer of old snow.

Nate stood by the office door in his work jacket, with a manila folder under his arm and no hat.

He looked like he hadn't slept since the night in the NICU.

"Thank you for coming," he said.

"You said it was important."

"It is. They won't let me past the counter without you. It's still your car."

The man behind the counter looked at my ID and handed me a flashlight without a word.

We walked down the third row together, our boots loud in the gravel.

Nate stopped at the end.

I hadn't seen it since the night they cut me out.

It was smaller than I remembered.

The back door on my side was caved in, the roof was creased, and the whole frame sat bent around a dent where it had struck the lamppost.

The glass was gone from the rear window.

I stood there with my arms crossed against the cold and did not say anything.

"I'm sorry," Nate said. "I've been wanting to say it since the lounge. I didn't know it looked like this."

"You didn't ask."

"No."

He crouched by the back door and shone his phone light along the crushed metal.

Down near the seam, where the paint hadn't flaked off, there was a long scrape of a different color.

It was a hard pewter gray, glossy, with metal flecks in it.

My own car had been white.

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