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I close my eyes for a moment with the reminder to get out of my head. I’m overthinking, worrying about things that I have no reason to worry about. I’m here. He’s here. We’re going to spend the night hopefully doing something fun andnothaving him murder me, and all I can think about are what-ifs and maybes.
Nope.
That’s not me.
The truck slows, and Ford pulls into a parking lot. The building up front is dark and abandoned, but floodlights are on behind it, illuminating the area. We’re about ten minutes outside of town, and there’s nothing else around.
I cut him a look that he misses. “This isn’t going to be some kind of underground fight ring, is it?”
“What? You don’t think I’d be good at that?”
He looks like he could physically throw any man around, but from what I’ve learned about him, Ford isn’t a fighter. “I’m not interested in trying to bandage up a bloody nose or whatever.”
“Well, it’s not a fight ring, but I can’t guarantee there won’t be any bloody noses. They’re pretty competitive.”
“Competitive?”
The truck stops, and he cuts the engine, then slaps my thigh as he clicks open his seat belt. “I’ll show you.”
That’s reassuring. Even with my apprehension, I follow him, half tucked behind his broad frame until we round the abandoned building and I take in the scene waiting for me.
Maybe ten … fifteen kids, surrounded by piles of scrap metal.
“Ah …”
He glances back over his shoulder at me. “Orson, meet the Race Warriors.”
8
Ford
The sheer confusionon Orson’s face lights me up inside. He might not be a car man, but he clearly knows enough to help me out here, and while it’s not exactly the kind of environment where we can spend time getting to know each other, it’ll tell me more about him than any one-on-one time we’ve had so far.
How a man treats cars and kids is all the info I need on him.
Taylor’s already here, along with some parents of the kids who like to help out. This isn’t a paid gig; everyone’s here because they wanna be, and helping my Race Warriors build the best damn soapbox cars to race is payoff enough. I love seeing their punk faces light up when they get to drive something they’ve created with their own two hands.
“What is this?” Orson asks curiously.
“These are our entrants into this year’s soapbox derby.”
“Soapbox derby?”
“Takes place outside of Springfield at the Thanksgiving festival. The kids have just short of two months to build their racers, but the younguns will be done before that. Thought you might like to help out.”
His smile spreads slowly but takes over his whole face. “Yeah, where do we start?”
That’s exactly the answer I’d been waiting for. We’ve got three groups here. The younger kids around eight to ten, then some barely in their teens, then three sixteen-year-olds who are determined to build the whole thing from scratch this year.
They might not have engines or any real power behind them, but helping stoke a kid’s love of cars is something I’ll happily spend the night doing.
Orson follows me through the old lot I use as a car graveyard. Empty shells are stacked on the other side of the lot, stripped of anything useable, and on this side are all the parts these kids are going to need to get on with their build. The younger ones have official soapbox kits, the middies will use the kits as a base, then customize however they like, and these older three will start from the chassis up.
Taylor and I are here to make sure shit goes smoothly and assist the older ones with their builds.
I step in close to Orson. “That lot over there will be straightforward. A lot of the kids here have their parents to help out, with the exception of a few whose parents work nights or whatever, so that’s where you’ll come in. They’re cluey—they’ve all done this before—but you’ll need to keep an eye on the instructions and make sure they’re set. Got it?”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
