Donald

The sunlight filtering through his window shades illuminated his room slowly. Long before it had chased the shadows to the farthest wall in the room, Donny had been awake but had stayed rooted to his bed. Before the accident he would already be moving through his morning exercise routine, pushing his body until his muscles burned and sweat stained his skin. But for the life of him, Donny could not summon the energy to simply leave his sheets let alone maintain his fitness.

He had been wide awake for several hours now. His mind wandering, his legs stiff and straight, his calves aching from nervous tension as he tried – fruitlessly – to go to sleep. He hadn't gotten a good bit of shuteye for weeks now, sometimes he would be blessed with a merciful seven hours of unconsciousness, but other times he would dream of the Room, and he would be wide awake for the rest of the night.

When the alarm clock finally hit eight and lets out it's irritating peals, Donny was still staring at the ceiling. Sighing loudly he reached over and turned it off, silencing the device and letting silence once again overtake his bedroom. He knew he should be getting out of bed and getting ready for work, but his mind was still turning things over. Should he get up, or should he continue trying to sleep? Twenty minutes had passed by before he managed to gather the willpower to start his day.

He sat up slowly, cringing as tingling pain lanced through his abdomen. His hand grasped the epicenter of the discomfort, his palm laying flat against a 'Y' shaped scar, covering an area of skin roughly the size of a playing card. A living reminder of the four foot piece of metal that skewered him through his windshield, of the six inches of small intestine he had lost in surgery, of the one-thousand hours he had spent wasting away in a hospital bed. Not bothering to get dressed yet, he ambled slowly out the bedroom door, through the hall, and into the bathroom on the right.

Donny stared into the mirror and hated the person that stared back. He hated the frail, weak man staring him back with furious intensity. His physique still hadn't recovered from the atrophy caused by his six week coma, it felt like he had completely lost his edge.

It wasn't the lack of sleep and female company, though those had played a part. It wasn't the fact he could no longer take control of his fate by sitting in a race car, instead of wasting away in front of the television, making his eyes and brain ache from watching those pointless sitcoms; It was the revelation of the kind of man he truly was. It was that knowledge, more than anything else that made him wish the weak man in his mirror would just do the world a favor and leave, destroying any trace of the man that remained – if there had ever been a man there in the first place – in the process.

It had been five months since the crash, and almost three since he woke up. Since then he had been mostly keeping company with his friends, though admittedly not as much as he had been before Leguna Seca. Donny wondered if Patrick and Jonathan were disgusted by the man in the mirror, the man who Donny was starting to suspect had been there all along and was only now starting to reveal himself to the world. Was this really all that was left for him?

Holly had visited him a few days after he first regained consciousness, by then his ability to speak had been restored so he chose that time to come clean with her. She had listened to him confess to his faithless actions, her eyes growing colder and lips trembling with suppressed emotion. After he had finished, she walked out of the room and out of his life. Donny had expected nothing less, Holly had far too much self respect to even contemplate continuing the farce out of pity for his circumstances; but he did miss her, and cursed himself for his idiocy every day since then.

Autumn was also giving him the cold shoulder. She had come to his house a few days after he was discharged from the hospital, where he flat out told her he could not in good conscience sleep with her anymore. She had taken that as him blaming her for his own fallout with Holly, and she had not returned his calls since; it seemed he had lost her friendship alongside the benefits.

Now all he had was Patrick and Jonathan. He didn't speak to Patrick anymore outside work, and he hadn't caught up with Jonathan since he checked in on him after he woke up; they were pretty much all he had left of his social life. If they left him too, then he didn't know how he was going to get through this bullshit. Donny gave the pathetic caricature in the mirror another glare before stepping out of the bathroom, into the hall and back to his bedroom.

On the plus side of things, he had managed to somewhat reconnect with his family. His father had payed off the remainder of the payments owed for the now wrecked Mazda, on the proviso that he would never compete in motorsports ever again, and his mother had him write down a signed agreement binding him to that promise. Donny resented them for essentially bringing the axe down on his lifelong dream, but looking back he honestly could not say it wasn't deserved in the end; he had been a terrible son to both of them. And the way he was now, he wasn't sure if he had the courage to go out to the track again – a disappointment and a coward, that's where he was at now.

Slipping into the first thing he found lying on the floor, Donny ruminated on the day ahead of him. Jonathan's birthday was today, he was turning twenty-five and was throwing a party at his family home, Donny had been invited personally over the phone a little more than three weeks ago, Patrick by their shared relationship had also been invited. It would be his first time in a large social gathering since leaving the recovery ward. Donny had been halfway tempted to turn Jonathan down, he didn't really have the energy to deal with people these days, and a party sounded like a surefire way to give him a headache; but he hadn't connected with Jonathan in months, and they had a talk that was long passed due.

Donny had taken the Sierra into the outskirts northeast of Oakland, where the urban sprawl gave way to open fields, park lands, and forests. It was a two hour drive from his own home, but well worth the trip just to get a glimpse of the place his friend called home.

Jonathan's Nantucket inspired vineyard estate was a sight to see, three floors, five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a pool, a four car garage, and a huge wrap around porch situated on a ten acre property with a tree lined drive leading all the way to the huge house. Several vehicles lined the gravel drive on either side, Donny was forced to park his pickup close to the gate and walk the rest of the way. On the walk to the house, he noted Patrick's trash packed Honda Civic parked in the middle of the line, his other friend was already here. When he approached the end of the drive, he noticed another car standing out. A sleek bright yellow Ferrari Testarossa with an obnoxiously large rear spoiler, and racing decals; Donny could already tell that the owner didn't know the first thing about optimizing a vehicle's performance, that spoiler would only produce drag at high speeds, and all those decals only served to degrade the Ferrari's sleek stock elegance – this car belonged to an asshole, he was calling it right now.

Walking the rest of the distance to the house he made his way up to the massive porch which was now crowded with party guests, Donny kept his eyes open for any sign of Jonathan. He asked around and was pointed to the pool deck at the back of the house.

He found Jonathan by the grill, which he was tending to. By his side was Nicole Cromwell, his fiance. Nicole was a rather pretty woman, she wore a black casual dress, wore her smooth black hair in a bob style, and possessed a rather intense set of brown, almond shaped eyes; he detected a bit of Asian ancestry in her blood.

Jonathan himself looked to be in the top of his game, he wore a loose white collared shirt and black slacks, and his red hair was carefully maintained into it's usual boring side part. He appeared to be enjoying himself, though Donny felt it had more to do with Nicole rather than his party. Lucky bastard.

"Hey Jon!" Donny hailed his friend who looked up from the hamburgers to see a familiar face approaching.

"Don! Glad you could make it, I'll have these ready in a minute now. Did you have any trouble getting here?"

"I managed to sneak through before the commuters took over the streets, are you enjoying the party so far?"

"It's been going good so far," Jonathan answered as he began scooping the cooked patties off the grill with his spatula, "You go on ahead and have fun, we can talk later when I have time."

"You have any beer around here?"

Jonathan's birthday party was a paradox to say the least. The atmosphere seemed to shift from formal to informal depending on what part of the house you were in and who you were with. One moment you are sipping somewhat expensive champagne with some affluent dicks, and then you walk outside and a bunch of morons are doing kegstands; Donny had little idea of what kind of party goer he was going to be, dick or moron. Donny's birthdays were always short and simple affairs, especially after he moved out of his parents house; say hi to your sisters, say hi to the parents, eat your cake, unwrap your pointless gifts, go home. It was in times like these that he felt jealous for the life his friend lived.

To occupy himself, Donny simply stayed with Patrick, who was now fixated on the buffet table and attempting to fit a little bit of everything onto a flimsy paper plate. Donny had been content with a few lamb chops, and a beer; he had already finished with the former and was still working on the latter. He did try to have fun, really, but his walls did not come down easily and no matter where in the house he went he could not bring himself to join in on the festivities.

'Perhaps coming here was a bad idea,' he thought glumly, taking a sip of his beer. There was nobody to talk to because Patrick's face was busy being stuffed, Jonathan was schmoozing his other friends, and he had no connection to anyone else here. He got up from his chair and moved to leave the drawing room, hoping to see if Jonathan was at last free from the distractions of his guests, but as he walked through the door, a smaller body collided with his and a feminine sounding 'oof' registered in his eardrums and he found his gaze turned downwards.

Green eyes, the color of old dollar bills stared back at him, and under them a cute nose was scrunched and a pair of full lips were down turned in embarrassment, all of it framed by shoulder length honey brown curls. Definitely one of the prettier faces he had seen since he walked into this pary. A quick inconspicuous glance shamelessly took in the graceful long legs, and medium sized bust. Donny's inner womanizer was suddenly jolted from hibernation as his lizard brain took his mind into dirty places before he quickly put a pin on it; last thing he needed was to creep her out.

"Sorry about that, are you alright miss..."

"Melissa," she answered awkwardly, "Melissa Witwicky."

It was a strange last name, but that hardly mattered to him right now. "Melissa, I am Donald. Donald Davis, but my friends call me Donny. You know Jon?"

Melissa shook her head, "No, my b- my friend, does; or at least knows his family."

"Nothing new there, Jonny's birthday parties attract all kinds of people. But what about you, are you enjoying yourself?" He asked conversationally. His old playboy skills were reawakening in the presence of this woman who he was barely acquainted with, and Donny embraced their return with gusto, for the moment he was starting to feel normal again.

"I'm fine," she answered unsure of herself, "But I don't know anyone here."

"You do now," Donny smiled, "How about another to mix things up?" He turned to address his would be wingman, Patrick, who was busy finishing up his previously overfilled plate on the couch.

"Hey Patrick, you mind coming over?" He asked with a wide grin. Patrick looked at the last few scraps then back at Donny before sighing and making his way over.

"Melissa Witwicky this is Patrick Whittle. Patrick, Melissa," he introduced them, "Patrick here is my best friend, straight out of college."

"A pleasure to meet you Miss Wickety," Patrick said happily, apparently pleased with Donny's sudden change in demeanor.

"Oh, it's Witwicky," Melissa corrected, "And thanks." Now she was smiling, nobody could stay tense with Patrick around, his gentle countenance and all round pleasant personality made him a wonderful wingman, though he wasn't always aware of the role he played.

"So what do you do for a living Melissa?" Donny inquired.

"Oh, I'm a secretary," she said a little shyly and with a hint of dismay, apparently she didn't think much of her job.

"Both me and Donny are mechanics at Midas," Patrick chimed in cheerfully, "Donny here is also a race car driver."

Color flooded Donny's cheeks, "Not anymore I'm afraid."

Melissa looked curious, but the fact that she had yet to be driven off by these two strange men in front of her was a good sign, he was kind of winging it here.

"What do you mean by-" she began and paused as she looked over Donny's shoulder and her eyes widened, face paling a shade. Donny looked back and saw a man approaching them. The man had strong Eastern European features, with a squared jawline, a clefted chin, hard blue eyes, and slicked back blonde hair. He was also tall, his tight designer clothing also hinted at a physique similar to the one Donny had before his disastrous race. Donny took an immediate disliking to the man.

"Melissa," he addressed her sharply, "I thought I told you not to leave my side. And who are these nobodies you are cavorting with?"

'Is this guy for real?' Donny thought incredulously, previously he thought assholes of this magnitude only existed in the world of fantasy, he never counted on meeting someone so repulsive in real life.

Donny was at a loss for words at the moment as the prick continued his tirade which was now turning towards him, "And you, what gives you the right to badger my girlfriend in such an uncouth manner?"

"Grant, don't-" Melissa began but a glare from Grant made her back down and look away from the two men.

"Slick outfit," Donny shot in with a drawl, "I bet if you stood out on a street corner you could make some money; give your mommy a break for the night."

"Idiot, do you have any idea who I am?" Grant demanded, his eyes drilling into Donny's. 'Oh my God, who the fuck says this shit outside TV?'

"I feel like you are dying to tell me," Donny replied sarcastically.

"My dad owns the finest bank chain in California," the man replied smugly, "The name's Eric Grant, my dad's Zachary Grant of Grant & Co. I run his San Francisco branch."

"Yeah, that says more about your dad and less about you. Do you have any agency of your own?"

The man glowered at him and Donny smirked, "Thought so."

Donny was turning away before Grant spoke again.

"Oh, I recognize you now. Dominic… David or whatever. You were all the rage a few months back, your exploits are known across the country, though I doubt anyone gives a damn about you anymore. Too bad you slept through being a celebrity, if only for a short time."

He gave a cruel smirk, "Though I must say, I have never seen anybody fly a car much like you did; though looking back I would say it was quite dimwitted of you."

Alright, now he wanted to run this inbred piece of shit over with his truck.

"Your ass must be getting real jealous from all that shit coming out of your mouth," Donny growled. Before the prick could respond, Donny pitched his glass forward, sending several fingers of alcohol through the air to splash right into the crotch of Grant's super-tight jeans. Donny knew it was low, but the gobsmacked look on Grant's face made it all worth it.

"What-? You! HOW DARE YOU!" The prick shouted, his face flushing an alarming shade of puce.

"What's going on in here?" And there, like a gift from God sent upon wings of angels was Jonathan Reeves, looking more than a little bit annoyed as he walked between the growing scene, his fiance waiting in the wings with a concerned look on her face.

"This imbecile has assaulted me!" Grant cried out, "I demand you have him thrown out of here before I call my lawyer!"

"I just said some mean words," Donny defended, "He's the one who pissed himself in fear." Gesturing to Grant's freshly moist and bitter smelling crotch.

Grant roared and struck Donny clear in the solar plexus, causing the weakened man to double over and take several steps back, but to his credit, Donny managed to not spill any more of his beer. Several other party guests moved to place themselves between the two men before more violence could break out.

"Take a hike Grant," Jonathan snapped, "If you can't act like a civilized human being, you have no business being here!"

"I would be careful with your words Jon," Grant stepped forward, emphasizing his own height over Jonathan's shorter stature, but the other man was having none of it and glared right back, "After all, we don't want any disagreements coming between our families, do we?"

"Get out." Jonathan repeated.

Grant sneered, "Fine, this gathering is beneath my standards anyway, come Melissa we're leaving."

Melissa paused and sent Donny an apologetic look before following after Grant, her head hung low with dejection.

"Don, to the study. We need to talk." Jonathan said, turning to him. Jonathan nodded, having gained his second wind but his gut was now sore as hell.

"If you were a girl I would be sweating now," Donny joked lamely as he followed, Jonathan gave a dry laugh though there was no real mirth behind it.

He followed Jonathan away from the festivities and to the study. It was one of the smaller rooms in the house, containing a desk, a narrow six shelf bookcase, a tack board, and one of those big boxy personal computers that seemed to be popping up everywhere these days. Jonathan paced around in front of him, as if considering his next words.

"Look, I'm sorry about taking you away from your party… and your future wife." Donny began awkwardly.

"It's fine, Nicole can entertain the guests for a few minutes. I'm sorry about Grant, my parents invited him here without asking me."

"He's a prick." Donny groused bitterly before taking a drink from his glass. "Don't know what she's seeing in him."

"Certainly not any wits, I can tell you that much," Jonathan grinned, and despite himself Donny was smiling too, though it faded as he recalled Grant's words.

"Don, what's wrong?" Jonathan asked, clearly picking up on his blackening mood.

"You know what Jon? These days I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I've fucked everything up!" His relationship with his parents? Lukewarm. His racing career? Dead and buried. His race car? Gone. Holly? He was dead to her. His friends? Still there, but for how much longer?

"You can't think like that Donny, you're better than that." Jonathan said squarely, "Now look me in the eye and stop feeling sorry for yourself!"

Warily Donny shifted his gaze to meet Jonathan's piercing green stare.

"I've been where you were at before," Jonathan said seriously, "It feels like nothing matters anymore, and everything you do just goes to shit."

"Sounds familiar," Donny replied without humor and breaking eye contact to contemplate the alcohol settling in his glass.

"It was after my uncle was killed." That snapped Donny right out of his stupor as he quickly returned his gaze back to Jonathan.

"It was two years before we met," his friend continued somberly, "My uncle and I… we went way back, he was the one who first introduced me to cars as a hobby, he had been one of those greaser types back in the day, had the leather jacket and the stupid hair with all the trimmings. It had been raining one night and he went out for a drive in the old '65 Mustang he always showed off, and he never came back."

Donny shifted his attention worriedly to Jonathan, whose face was void of expression, "They found the car at the bottom of a hillside road… uncle Cal was already long gone when they found him. It hit my dad pretty hard, they were real tight growing up; but as for me, well I was feeling a little bit like you are right now."

Donny had no words, he had never seen this side to Jonathan in the years they had known one another. Slowly Donny set his drink on the desk, pushing it out of his mind to focus more on his friend.

"I helped him work on that old pony a few days before he took it out, and to this day I still wonder if it had been something I had done that caused Cal to die. And I probably wouldn't have gotten through it if it hadn't been for the Urraco."

Now Donny was confused, "The Lamborghini? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything," Jonathan replied, completely serious, "My uncle bought it a week before the accident at a junkyard, he was planning on restoring it and having me help him out. He never was able to have it towed out from the yard, so the owner called up my father and I overheard it. My folks wanted nothing to do with the car, but I managed to convince them to let me take a shot at it.

"I worked on the Urraco every spare day I had, I ordered replacement parts from all over the States, busted fingers on both my hands winching out the engine block out of the back one time, and got all kinds of cuts and scrapes along the way, and when it was finished not only did the car look awesome but I felt awesome." He grinned, his eyes bright with mirth at the memories playing out in his mind. "It made me feel in control again, it helped me convince myself – halfway at least – that what happened to Cal wasn't my fault."

"That's all it took?" Donny asked suspiciously.

"Talking about it also helped," Jonathan admitted, "Have you been talking to Patrick? To your family?"

"I talk to Patrick plenty of times, and I am also seeing my family." Donny answered, his posture becoming a little defensive.

"Your parents made you give up racing," he pointed out, "You aren't mad at them for doing that?"

"I didn't say I wasn't mad," Donny said lowly, his eyes falling to the floor, "They twisted my arm while I was in bed and unable to speak full sentences! But I – I deserved it didn't I? You saw how I was treating them at the track."

"They made it worse for you," Jonathan observed, "That's not how family is supposed to treat each other Donny; two wrongs do not make a right. I think you also need to clear this up with your folks."

Donny nodded noncommittally, "Right."

Jonathan squeezed his shoulder firmly, "If you need help, give me a call."

"That place you mentioned, the junkyard. Do you have the address?"

Jonathan paused, considering for a moment, before taking a napkin from a nearby table and his ballpoint pen from his pocket, he scribbled the address down and handed the napkin to Donny who quickly pocketed it. "Thanks, but I think I should get out of here."

"A pleasure, but are you sure you aren't staying?"

"Nah, I feel like I'll be a drag on the party, and I still need to drive myself home before I get too hammered off your fancy booze."

Jonathan chuckled, "Just take care of yourself."

Donny managed a small smile before walking away, heading back outside into the warm evening air. He had done what he came here to do, set things straight with Jonathan and also got some advice he had half a mind to follow up on. As he came up to the porch railing next to the stairs leading down to the drive, he took notice of Grant and Melissa next to the overdone Ferrari, him gesturing insistently to the vehicle and her with an angry look on her face. Definitely not a match made in heaven. They both got in and Donny was reminded of his earlier thoughts on the vehicle.

'Totally called it.'

For the rest of the week, time moved slowly for Donny. His memories of the party melted into a blur with few distinct details; Jonathan's story, Melissa, that prick Grant, and directions to a certain junkyard where his friend had found the catalyst to resolve his own depression. In spite of the ambivalence to the idea he had displayed at the party, it had stuck with him consistently, coming back to mind in his off hours until it was all he could think of at times.

Donny wanted something to do, something constructive to spend his time on that was all for him and him alone. He had some money to spend, and since he no longer had to shell out entry fees for his monthly racing he suddenly had a lot more disposable income; he could make it work. But he was still hesitant.

Would this really help him get his life back on track? Something told him that it wouldn't be that easy, not by a long shot. But thinking his way out of depression wasn't exactly working out for him lately, and if he didn't find a way to be rid of it his life was at risk of becoming unlivable.

"I think you should go for it," Patrick replied with a smile, "It's not like racing, but you'll never know what it's like until you give it a go!"

"What, I should just go over there and pick up a pile of scrap? I don't even know if they have something worth taking," Donny returned with a skeptical tone.

"Then give em a call, did Jon give you a number?" Patrick pressed on as he reached into the raised undercarriage of the Ford station wagon they were working on.

"Nope," was the simple answer as Donny began his own work at the opposite end of the car.

"Then check the yellow pages, I'm sure they have a few good ones lined up. If Jonny got a Lambo off them, whose to say you won't do one better?"

He was about to reply when a thick gobbet of sludge dripped from the rear axel and onto his company shirt, defacing the Midas logo on the front. He cursed to himself and searched around for a cleaning rag, his eyes scanning around the service shop.

Midas, what could he say about working for Midas? It wasn't Donny's dream job, that was for certain. But he had learned a lot working here, things that the auto shop at Berkeley didn't exactly cover in detail. His co-workers were a friendly bunch, especially Patrick. But the place suffered from poor management, Julius Sawyer – his boss – was more dramatic than a schoolgirl, and had a tendency to gossip about problems rather than take the initiative and solve them; he was a good man, but a bad boss. But all that had mattered little to Donny, it had been a way to make money to pay his way into the racing scene; now that, that door was closed for good, he was left a little uncertain of why he was still working here.

"Here," Patrick said, handing him a rag which Donny gratefully accepted, rubbing out his shirt.

"I'll think about it, I admit it sounds like it could be fun." Donny admitted.

"Call them when you get home, and we can both go tomorrow," Patrick said with a grin.

Donny frowned, "Why do you want to come?"

"Just want to look around is all," Patrick said simply. Donny did not buy it, Patrick was well known for his compulsive buying and hoarding, a habit that has transformed his home into one giant fire hazard. As much as Donny did not want to help feed into that habit, he could really use Patrick's help if he did go.

"Suit yourself," was his reply before turning back to the car suspended over them.

The Sierra rolled down route 101 at a steady pace, it's sturdy engine humming powerfully as it hauled the empty trailer and it's two passengers onward to their destination. The last time Donny had been down this road, he had been on his way to Leguna Seca and his eventual downfall. No small amount of anxiety knotted his stomach, his scar was tingling in sympathy as his thoughts took a dark turn to his experiences while comatose.

"Hey Don, penny for your thoughts?" Patrick suddenly spoke up, as the pickup started to go downhill. Donny was jolted out of his own thoughts and the Sierra swerved slightly in the lane before he straightened back up.

"I was thinking about the race," he replied, seeing no reason to lie to Patrick.

"That wasn't your fault Donny," Patrick said carefully, "That other guy stopped on the track, it was all bad luck."

"Hrm..." Donny grunted, his eyes fixed on the road. "Doesn't matter anymore, none of it does."

Patrick was silent for a moment before he attempted to put the conversation on a new tangent, "Did you ever get Melissa's number?"

Melissa? Oh yeah, that girl he blew it with at Jonathan's party, the one with the massive ricer prick for a boyfriend. He had almost forgotten about her, he faintly remembered some outlandish ideas to seduce her away from Grant the night he came back from the party, but never acted on any of them. He had stopped caring about it after he woke up the next day.

"No."

Patrick looked visibly frustrated, "What do you mean no? I saw how you were with her, it was like you were you again! Are you just gonna let that go?"

"It was nothing," Donny rebuffed, "Nothing I ever want to be again." He knew very well what kind of man he was now, he had no regard for Melissa as a human being, in that moment he had been the same person who kept Holly waiting for all these years while cheating behind her back. As big of an asshole Grant was, Donny was little better; she'd be better off without either of them.

Noting the crestfallen look on Patrick's face Donny felt a fresh wave of guilt; even when he was trying to reconnect with them, he still found ways to wound the people closest to him. He then took notice of a sign he was looking for.

"Here's our turn," Donny announced, gratefully cutting the steering wheel to the right, getting off the highway and onto a rough dirt road that caused the decade old GMC truck to bounce around on it's suspension, it brought a smile to his face despite his earlier mood, he loved taking dirt roads.

Donny let off the gas and idled the Sierra lazily into what had once been a fairly large farming estate. All Donny and Patrick could see was an old house connected to a large sheet metal garage, a rundown barn and a pair of silos, and a seemingly endless amount of derelict cars, arrayed like tombstones as far as the could see. A large wooden sign next to the entrance read: "Littlehorn & Sons, Auto & Salvage" Donny put his eyes back on the road as he searched for a place to park.

"Looks like this is the place," Patrick remarked, stepping out of the pickup. They weren't the only ones here, Donny could see a slew of other customers prowling around the automobile graveyard with wagons laden with salvage.

"Let's go get checked in," Donny said flatly, starting off towards the farm house while shielding his eyes from dust clouds carried up by the winds sweeping through the packed dirt parking lot. Unfortunately some of it did get in his mouth, and he swore he felt rust grains on his tongue as he spat it out.

The farm house seemed to be the only part of the original estate that was being kept in good maintenance, though it was still rough around the edges. It was two stories tall and had dark wood shingled walls and dirty windows, another business sign was hanging off the porch railing, and he spotted a man sitting in a wicker chair next to the front door. He was an older man, somewhere north of fifty and appeared to be rather short and portly, he looked the part of a Texan rancher, with the plaid shirt, well worn jeans cinched to his waist by a thick leather belt with a buckle, and a white cowboy hat sitting on his brow.

"Excuse me, can you tell me where Mr. Littlehorn is?" Donny asked.

"You're speaking to him," the man – Wilson Littlehorn – replied as he raised himself out of his chair, coming up about a head shorter than Donny. "What can I do for you?"

"I called you yesterday, about buying a car here. The '67 Charger?"

Mr. Littlehorn cracked a grin, "Ah ha! Mr. Davis, yes now I remember! The Charger is waiting for your review in row sixteen over yonder," he gestured down the path off to the side of the house where numbered signs were erected on short posts next to each row of junked cars, "Now I should warn you son, that Charger has seen better days but a little elbow grease on your part will bring the life right out of her."

Looking back at Patrick who simply shrugged, both friends left the farmhouse and walked down the path to row sixteen.

"He seemed a bit insincere," Patrick commented as they went down the rows before coming upon a crude yellow sign marked '16' with broad black brush strokes. Turning down the row they passed by a procession of cars in various states of disrepair and dismantlement, when they found the Charger, Donny quickly wished they hadn't.

The 1967 Dodge Charger was sitting on flat rimless tires, it's headlamps concealed behind their distinctive shutters and it's front windshield was completely missing. But according to Wilson it had all it's engine parts in one place and nothing critical had been removed from the vehicle. Donny took in the car with a wary eye, it's coat once likely a sleek glossy black, was no completely faded through to a worn out flat gray. It's oversized right sail panel had a large gouge down it's length from the roof to the quarter panel, as if some maniac had taken an axe to it. The interior was completely trashed, the front driver and passenger side seats were stripped of their coverings down to their teared up yellowed foam cushions, and the rear seats were missing altogether, strips of fabric were hanging down from the cab's ceiling and leaves were scattered everywhere. Wasps were congregating in the back, there must be a nest over there somewhere.

"So much for one-upping Jon's Lambo," Donny said acidly, looking over the hideous interior with visible disgust. There was no way in hell he was taking this thing anywhere near his home.

"It's a fixer upper Donny," Patrick chided, walking over to the junked vehicle, "We haven't even looked at the engine yet! Now let's see, there should be a lever somewhere… ah! Here we go!" Patrick popped the catch on the bonnet and flipped the rusted lid open. Almost immediately, three fat brown rats scurried out of the engine compartment and tumbled into the grass by Patrick's feet, startling the man and causing him to back away in fright.

The sunlight was now shining down upon the opened compartment, which was almost completely filled with dirt, dried out leaves and grass, among other pieces of debris. He could spot the mouths of little tunnels in the heap, and he swore he spotted beady little eyes and the tips of whiskers shaking in a few of them.

"That's not right!" Patrick cried out, looking pissed off, "They baited you Donny!"

Donny could have told him that much the moment he laid eyes on the Dodge, he was fairly certain Mr. Littlehorn had a few other cars – more expensive ones – that were in better condition that he would point them towards.

"Forget it, I'll look around for something else, you go find whatever you want and we'll meet back at the house, okay?"

"Right, right," Patrick nodded, "Just be careful around here, just because some of them look good on the outside doesn't mean they aren't a mess on the inside."

"I know, catch you later," Donny muttered irritably, he regretted being so short with Patrick but it had been a long drive and Wilson's bullshit wasn't doing anything to improve his mood. As Patrick turned around to peruse the salvaged parts section of the lot, Donny continued onward into the graveyard.

Walking through the junkyard, nothing seemed to catch Donny's eye as far as a potential restoration project was concerned. He noted the make and model of each car to cross his eye, making educated guesses to their production years. Only a few of the junked up cars managed to hold his attention for more than a few passing moments. A '57 Chevy Bel Air piqued his interest, it was set up on blocks and despite it's shabby countenance, it still exuded the stylish 50s flare and excess that modern cars simply didn't have anymore. Curiously he placed a hand on the fender, only for it to fall off, the other fender to fall off, and the bumper nearly smashing his feet when it too joined in on the fun. 'Not paying for it!' Donny shouted mentally as he retreated from the Chevy, hoping nobody had seen that.

Donny wandered further into the field of disused hulks, and his heart sank a little further with every rusted corpse he passed. None of these vehicles, not even the 1960 Plymouth Fury missing it's hood, was in fit enough condition for him to bring back to life. He passed by a stack of rusted bodies, a dilapidated 1950s Chrysler Imperial was leaning precariously on top, as if set to roll off and crush anyone unlucky enough to be near it, Donny gave that one a wide berth. After passing by the leaning tower of Chrysler, Donny turned a corner and felt a chill run down his spine. He felt like he was being watched. He halted right in his tracks as an unnatural silence descended upon the junkyard, he could no longer hear the grasshoppers or the birds, only the hot dry wind gusting gently at his back. Donny, as if by a sudden premonition, turned slowly in place to find… a Pontiac Firebird, baking in the afternoon sun.

A trickle of cold sweat ran down his brow as he approached the muscle car with wary steps until he could get a proper look at it. Like many other cars, rust was encroaching across it's entire body, and all four tires were flat and it appeared that it's suspension had given out, making it look tired and defeated. Other than that though, all of it's parts seemed to be there and the body damage appeared minimal. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching him, those square quad lamps seemed to be staring into his soul.

By and large the Pontiac didn't look too bad, the rust looked like it could be sanded off. It looked like it had been a flashy crimson red at one time, but with the cracking the fading and dust taking root in the ruined coat, he couldn't precisely tell the original shade. On it's hood the iconic Firebird emblem was proudly stretching it's stylized wings beneath the raised hood scoop, Trans-Am markings were also present over the left side headlamps and on both fenders. Both man and machine seemed to stare one another down before Donny overcame his inexplicable unease and he crossed the rest of the distance.

A growing feeling of familiarity and nostalgia filled Donny to the brim as he came to a stop in front of the Firebird's square jawed bumper. He knew this car well.

In 1969, Pontiac unveiled a new line of vehicles which would set a trend that would last into the early eighties. The Firebird Trans-Am was a limited run of a very badass muscle car, only a few hundred ever rolled off the factory floor, and today they were prized collectors items. The Trans-Am trend continued with every model year from then afterwards. But it's greatest success to date came in the production year of 1977, when the latest Firebird Trans-Am featured in the highly successful film Smokey and the Bandit.

That movie had been Donny's first introduction to the Firebirds, and as a teenager just starting to get really interested in motorsports, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. In 1977, you either had this car, or you didn't; that was how popular it was. And now it was in front of him.

In spite of it's decrepit state, this Firebird seemed even more spectacular than the one he had seen on the silver screen. It was like there was an otherworldly pull to it, like there was something beyond the ordinary to this rusted out derelict. Slowly he leaned over the vehicle, his hand reaching out to touch the hood. As his palm caressed the pitted and cracked paint set over the rust pocked body, something within him compelled him to address the ruined muscle car.

"Hey there." He greeted the Firebird, feeling slightly foolish, "Haven't seen a girl like you in a while." His fingertips glided over the hood as he walked around the left fender to get a look at the rest of his prospective rescuee. The Rims were mostly original, save for the center caps, which instead of bearing the Firebird emblem were instead marked by a strange blank-faced mask symbol with imperious triangular eye slits and a horned crown being it's key defining features. Donny slid his fingers into the cracked chrome handle of the drivers side door and pulled it open. The black leather interior was filthy, but appeared to be mostly salvageable. His eyes drifted over to the steering wheel, and he frowned as he took in the now familiar shape of that mask symbol printed onto the horn cap. Donny was a purist when it came to special edition classics, and these strange customizations detracted from the vehicle's authenticity; what was the meaning of that symbol? It must be some kind of club the previous owner had been a part of.

Brushing off a thin layer of grit and grime from the drivers seat, Donny entered the cab and settled into the cushion, it was still quite comfortable. The windows, including the ones installed into the T-top were nearly opaque with dust and dirt, so not much sunlight was coming in save through the door he had left ajar; it was also blisteringly hot, the darkened cab felt like an oven. Donny reached across to the passenger side and pushed open the other door to let in some more air. As he did so, he heard a metallic rattle followed by a loud clink come from the glove box right next to him. Wary of being jumped by a snake or a rodent hiding in there, but also very curious Donny lifted the latch to the glove box and pulled the lid down. Within the box was a key.

Fishing it out Donny righted himself back up and took a closer look. The key was polished silver in color, with faint bluish circuitry patterns printed all over it's surface. The key's head was shaped – surprise, surprise – in the form of that edgy mask symbol. Donny idly wondered if there were other parts of the car that had been marked with it. The key was surprisingly heavy in his palm however, it felt close to a full pound; incredible for something so small. Additionally unlike the rest of the car it was cold to the touch, like the laws of thermodynamics didn't apply to it.

Donny eyed the ignition socket located in the steering column and after a moment's hesitation, slid the abnormally weighty key into the slot and gave it a turn. He heard the engine stir under the hood briefly, before the Firebird suddenly bounced up energetically, causing Donny to shout out in surprise. Taking stock of the situation, he noticed the dash lights had turned on, the radio had turned on, and the car was now noticeably higher off the ground.

Thespeakers warbled and screeched an indecipherable din, that sounded like a fax machine was having a love affair with a songbird and a whale – at the same time.

Donny twisted the key back into the off position and pulled it out of the ignition, the harshly alien din was cut off alongside the power. He then stepped out of the vehicle. His eyes widened when he beheld the cause behind the Firebird's spontaneous jump. All four tires were now fully pressurized, and it's suspension had been heightened significantly – endowing the Pontiac with a very attractive stance.

"The hell?" Donny said to himself, warily eyeing the vehicle. Few words came to mind for what he was seeing besides 'impossible' and 'freaky', he had never seen anything like that before. Explanations like 'compressed air' and 'magic' also flitted through him mind before he discarded them, self filling tires and auto adjusting suspension had not been invented to his knowledge, and there was no such thing as magic. He walked over to the front of the Firebird and reached for the hood latch in the bumper, popping it open with a quick tug. Lifting the bonnet, he beheld the engine.

The Firebird's six-point-six liter V8 looked damn near pristine compared to the rest of the car. Hardly any speck of rust was to be found inside the engine compartment, though there was plenty of dust. While an awesome looking car, the 1977 Trans-Am lagged behind other muscle cars in performance, even in it's prime it wouldn't have any business being on the same road as his late Mazda. But still, with a little bit of TLC, Donny could see himself getting this old girl back on her feet in no time. Making sure no one else had seen what was under the hood, he slammed it shut.

Donny left the Firebird and made his way back to the old farm house to find Wilson Littlehorn at his desk flipping through paperwork with a sour look on his weathered face. He looked up at Donny's approach.

"You're back, did you like the Charger?" He asked, setting a stack of papers down and folding his hands upon the peeling desk.

"I'm not interested in the Charger, I want to talk about that Firebird at the back of the lot, the red Trans-Am."

A frown overcame Wilson's features as he took in Donny's words, "Hmm… I see, it hasn't caused you any trouble has it?"

"No, but I want to know more about it, where it was found, what is it's story?"

Wilson stared at him suspiciously before giving out a sigh and responding.

"It came in three months ago," Wilson stated, "It was fished out of the Bay at the Oyster Point Marina and brought here at bargain price. It's been sitting out there all summer, completely untouched."

That car had come from the Bay? That explained the rust, but still the Firebird was in remarkably good condition after spending who knew how long immersed in salt water and then being left out to bake in the Summer sun; but it's engine should have been a complete wreck after that little stint, and yet he heard it sing a few tunes before stalling out.

"Hrm," Mr. Littlehorn grunted, "I never had high hopes for that washed up muscle car, really, and the Bandit Firebirds aren't as popular as they used to be. Tell you what, if you can trailer it out of here by yourself it's yours for three-hundred."

"You seem a bit eager to be rid of it, is there something wrong?" Donny asked, wondering if there had been a dead body or something stuffed in the trunk when it was found. Little details like that tended to drop the price.

"There have been accidents," Wilson answered reluctantly, "When we first brought it here, one of my boys was shocked pretty badly when he tried to pop the hood, enough to leave a scar; and last month a customer was set on fire when he tried to take off the rims, still have no idea how that happened, but his lawyers are still giving us trouble. A week ago I decided to hell with this bitch and had it loaded into the crusher, and now the crusher is more wrecked than any car on this lot. If you can take this curse far away from here, you will be doing me a favor. Either way, it's no skin off my back, when the crusher is fixed tomorrow that car is the first thing going in."

"That won't be necessary. I'll take it," Donny found himself saying. He hadn't even done a thorough examination of the vehicle yet, and here he was already committed to buying it. Sure the price was a steal, but it was still not like him, he had given the Mazda a thrice over before even considering his purchase, and this Pontiac was at a glance the complete opposite of roadworthy. Then again, he wasn't here to buy a top of the line roadster, he knew he would be taking home a pile of junk before he had even begun his trip here. Plus it was a '77 Trans-Am, it was an enduring symbol of his childhood; he wasn't going to let the chance to own one slip through his fingers. Besides, there was more to that car than what meets the eye, and it didn't feel right to leave it here to be destroyed.

In a flash Donny had his checkbook out, and with a few strokes of a pen his life from hereon after was irrevocably changed.

Half an hour later, the Firebird was dragged out to the entrance. It took Donny, two other men and a winch to push it on to his car hauler and tie it down securely. Patrick had stashed his obligatory hoard fodder – what appeared to be some mufflers and a stereo system – into the flatbed. With everything now in order, Donny now sat in the Sierra's cab, completely stoked for the first time in months. Already, plans for the Pontiac's complete restoration were running rampant through his mind. But when he looked back through the cab's rear window, all thoughts fled him when he saw those headlamps staring back at him.

He suddenly felt very, very small.

Author's Note: Longest chapter yet! And it's PURE Donny! I'm trying to expose his point of view as much as possible before Shatter wakes up from stasis. I tried to flesh out the supporting characters as much as possible, but I am still kind of rusty when getting my characters to interact realistically with each other. Anyways, reviews are – as always – most welcome!