“One hundred dollars.”
The Single Dad looked up from the rust-covered quarter panel.
The Woman stood several feet away in the driveway, one manicured hand holding three folded bills while the other pointed at the old car as though she were identifying something dead.
“One hundred dollars,” she repeated. “Take it away today.”
The Single Dad glanced at the car.
Then back at her.
“That’s your offer?”
She laughed.
“For this?”
Her orange pointed heel tapped impatiently against the clean concrete driveway.
“You should be paying me for the privilege of removing it.”
The Single Dad said nothing.
Behind them stood one of the most expensive houses in the neighborhood, a stone-and-brick suburban property with trimmed hedges, tall windows, and a three-car garage large enough to hold almost anything.
Almost anything except the rusted coupe that had apparently been pushed outside that morning.
The car looked terrible.
That much was undeniable.
Its original blue-gray paint had disappeared beneath decades of oxidation.
Rust covered the roof.
More rust surrounded the wheel arches.
The driver's door wore long brown scars where paint had peeled away in sheets.
One chrome strip hung slightly loose.
The windshield was dusty.
The tires were old.
The interior smelled like dry vinyl, engine oil, and fifty years of being forgotten.
The Woman looked like she belonged in an entirely different world.
Long brunette hair with caramel highlights fell over the shoulders of an immaculate gray belted blazer.
Oversized black cat-eye sunglasses covered much of her face.
Matching wide-leg trousers fell perfectly over bright orange heels.
A structured orange handbag hung from one arm.
Nothing about her suggested she had ever spent an afternoon scraping rust from anything.
She looked at the Single Dad’s worn boots.
Then at his mechanic’s bag.
Then at the car.
“You’re the man the estate company sent, right?”
“Yes.”
“They said you remove old vehicles.”
“Sometimes.”
“Good.”
She extended the money.
“Then remove this one.”
He did not take it.
The Woman lowered her sunglasses slightly.
“Is there a problem?”
The Single Dad ran one hand across the side of the car.
Rust flaked beneath his fingertips.
“When did it last run?”
She gave him a look.
“Before I was born?”
“You don't know?”
“I don't care.”
The Single Dad crouched beside the driver's door.
The Woman sighed.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“For what?”
He did not answer.
The Woman stepped closer.
“You do understand the job, right?”
He looked up.
“Usually I inspect a car before moving it.”
“This isn’t a car.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She pointed at the rust.
“This is a tetanus shot with wheels.”
Despite himself, the Single Dad smiled.
The Woman noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You think I’m exaggerating?”
“A little.”
She folded her arms.
“My father kept that thing for forty years.”
The smile disappeared from the Single Dad’s face.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“He owned it?”
“Apparently.”
“You're not sure?”
The Woman looked toward the house.
“My father owned a lot of things he refused to explain.”
Something in her tone changed.
Only briefly.
Then the sharp confidence returned.
“He died three weeks ago.”