No stamp.
No address.
Just her name.
She did not open it.
Instead, she placed it in her handbag.
The Single Dad said nothing.
At six-thirty, his phone rang.
His Daughter.
He answered immediately.
“Hey.”
“Are you alive?”
He smiled.
“I’m alive.”
“You said two hours.”
“I know.”
“It’s been like seven.”
“Three and a half.”
“Same thing.”
The Woman listened, amused.
The Daughter continued through the speaker.
“Did you forget dinner?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
The Single Dad checked the time.
“Yes.”
“I knew it.”
“Pizza?”
“Extra cheese.”
“Deal.”
A pause.
Then:
“Did you find treasure?”
The Single Dad looked at the prototype.
“Maybe.”
The Woman heard.
“Treasure?”
“Long story.”
“Bring it home.”
He laughed.
“I don’t think the owner would approve.”
The Woman smiled faintly.
“Goodnight.”
“Bye, Dad.”
He ended the call.
The Woman looked at him.
“She sounds terrifying.”
“She is.”
“You're lucky.”
The Single Dad nodded.
“Yes.”
The Woman looked toward the unopened letter inside her handbag.
“I suppose.”
He packed his tools.
“I’ll come back tomorrow if you still want me to continue.”
She nodded.
“What should I do tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't move it.”
“Don't start cleaning it.”
“Don't let anybody sand anything.”
“Don't let anybody tow it.”
“And don't post it online.”
She laughed.
“That specific?”
“Very.”
“Why?”
“Because if this is real, you don't want every collector in America knowing before your paperwork is organized.”
She looked at the car.
“Too late.”
“What?”
“I sent a photo to the estate attorney this morning.”
The Single Dad stopped.
“Before I got here?”
“Yes.”
“Telling him what?”
“That I wanted the car removed.”
The Single Dad frowned.
“Did he reply?”
“He said he knew someone who could take it.”
“Who?”
She checked her phone.
The response had arrived two hours earlier.
She read the name.
The Single Dad's expression changed.