A New Engine at the Door

Three years later, Chloe stood on a stepladder in the bay with a cordless driver. The shop was warm with afternoon heat. She backed out the four corner screws holding the acrylic case to the wall, taking down the cardboard fuel tank to preserve it before rot ruined the seams.

The paper was dark brown, brittle at the corners where the old clear coat had chipped away.

As Chloe carried the tank under the bench lights, a loose cardboard baffle inside flapped open. She leaned down and shined a penlight into the hollow chamber.

Written in blue crayon and heavy pencil lines pressed into the raw paper by a nine-year-old hand, three words stretched across the inside panel:

REAL ONE LATER.

Chloe sat on the edge of the workbench, holding the fragile box in her lap.

Downstairs by the open bay doors, a young girl sat on the floor with a pair of shears, cutting shipping boxes into wheel covers for a pedal car. She made a quiet engine noise with her tongue between her teeth. The afternoon sun stretched long across the brick threshold, warm and bright on the oil-stained floor.