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all the time, but today was special. I felt generous. No envelopes in the mail, Mom and Dad were satisfied with my going-to-the-airport effort, and I was pretty sure I’d get another hug from Max. Maybe more.
    Jenni felt generous too. The weight of my doughnut bag equaled more than my order.
    Sprinkler systems on the main drag forced me to back streets and the back streets led me into the country. The sun sprinted up the sky, and sweat tickled my back in a matter of minutes. By the time I rolled up to the gates of Metal Pete’s Fine Salvage Yard, I’d sucked down half my iced coffee and considered chugging the rest.
    “Cool it down, Florida,” I pleaded.
    Florida stuck out both middle fingers and zapped away the tiny breeze.
    I hiked my sleeves to three-quarter length, parked the Spree, and grabbed Metal Pete’s breakfast.
    The auto salvage business fascinated me. From the road, it looked like an unorganized metal shit-fest. Up close was a different story. Row after row of damaged cars, in various states of decay, took up fifteen acres of land. Every car, truck, RV, school bus, motorcycle, and boat had been inventoried and arranged with customers in mind. I’d been here dozens of times, and the ocean of debris still made me stare in awe and sadness.
    “Metal Pete,” I called out.
    Headlight came instead, tail wagging, and nosed the doughnut bag with interest. “Where’s Metal Pete?” I asked her.
    Both ears rose into spikes as she trotted ahead to the office. The door was open, and I sauntered in as if I worked there.
    “Hey there, you.” Metal Pete glanced up at me as he worked some sunblock into his weathered face. “I thought you’d forgotten about your favorite salvage yard.”
    “Been trying to cut back,” I told him. Although he knew I didn’t mean it.
    I placed his breakfast on a table that had once been in the galley of some yacht, and played with seat-belt riggings that held fern planters. Everything around here got repurposed.
    Metal Pete peeked inside the bag, rubbed his nonexistent belly, and said, “Me too.”
    The man never met a pastry he didn’t like, but he walked this place every day, refusing to ride in the Gator the way I’d suggested. The yard was his gym, and it was pretty damn effective. His old never sagged.
    “You look different,” he said, tossing a doughnut hole into his mouth.
    “Max is back.”
    “And you’re here? Kid, I haven’t been your age in a long time, but that’s not how dating works.”
    “He’s busy this morning, and we’re not dating, exactly, we’re just . . .”
    “Dating,” Metal Pete concluded. “And . . . like usual . . . I’m your distraction.”
    I smiled around my straw.
    “Okay”—he drummed his fingers on his cheek—“I’ll give you a dollar if you can find a 1998 red Chevy Impala with an intact bumper.”
    From there, I followed the script of a conversation we’d had many times. “You know exactly where it is.”
    “Yeah, but you don’t, and you, my dear, are looking peaky. Why don’t you go wander around in the sunshine?”
    “For a dollar?”
    “You drive a hard bargain. How about two?”
    “Make it five, and you’ve got a deal,” I told him.
    This was a game we played. He wanted to pay for his breakfast, and I never let him. Scavenger hunts were a different story. I charged him double for those.
    “Give me a hint of which direction to look.”
    Metal Pete devoured his doughnut in three bites and scratched his chin. “It’s close to where you’ll end up anyway.”
    Metal Pete and I understood each other. His wife died of cancer five years ago, and so far, I’d never seen him out of the yard, never seen him in anything but his gray Hanes V-neck, and never seen him interact with anyone who didn’t have grease on his hands. Junked metal was easier to sort out than a broken heart. I was his exception and he was mine.
    I filled a cup of water and gave the ferns a drink on my way out. “I’m taking Headlight with