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After a quick pee, I headed to the prepared food aisle. I’d eaten the equivalent of five slices of cake for breakfast so I wasn’t exactly hungry, but I figured I should buy something for the road in case we hit more monster traffic. But when I got to aisle eight, I was disappointed to find Ian already there.
“I thought you said you weren’t hungry.”
His eyes were scanning the selection. “I suddenly had a craving for a Malamute sandwich. Maybe with a St. Bernard salad on the side.”
I tried to think of something snotty to say in response. But the best I could come up with was: “Just find something. I’ll go grab a couple of drinks. Is cola okay?”
“Ginger ale,” he said with neither a please nor a thank you.
We met at the register, paid for our stuff, and stepped back outside. We were about fifty feet from my car when I noticed something.
“My windshield,” I said.
“What about it?”
“It’s gone.”
“It’s gone?” he said, incredulous.
I jogged down the block to my car, Ian following behind.
“Your windshield’s gone,” he said when he caught up.
“I know,” I said.
“I don’t understand. Shouldn’t there be broken glass all over the place?”
“It’s not broken,” I said. “It’s gone.”
“It’s gone?”
“It’s gone,” I repeated.
“Where did it go?”
“Nowhere on its own,” I explained. “Someone stole it.”
“Someone stole it?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“I’m just trying to wrap my mind around the concept of windshield theft,” he said. “That’s a thing? Really?”
“They don’t make cars like mine anymore so if something breaks, you can’t buy the spare parts from the dealer,” I explained. “Thieves look for cars that are no longer being manufactured, steal the obsolete parts, then sell them for a killing.”
“In broad daylight?”
“Evidently.”
“So what do we do?”
“We find the nearest used auto parts shop,” I said. “We can’t drive all the way to Connecticut without a windshield.” I pulled up my phone browser and typed inused auto parts near me. The closest one was only about four blocks away. “I found one. Let’s go.”
As it turned out, even four blocks was a long way when it involved driving with the exhaust of a Pontiac Grand Am blowing directly into our faces.
“I can’t breathe,” Ian said, gagging.
“Just close your eyes and hold your breath for one more minute. We’re almost there.” I found a parking spot in front of the shop and pulled in. “Are you coming in or do you want to wait in the car?”
