He disappears into the house before I can tell him that I really don’t want to be left alone. I tuck my knees to my chest, looking at the droplets of dew resting in the grass. A few minutes later, Mason reappears, wearing a deep-green army jacket over his hoodie, his hair styled into its usual messy quiff. I rise to my feet expectantly.

“I have an idea,” he remarks. “The restoration says it’s going to take an hour now, so we have some time to kill. Come with me.”

Those last three words are all it takes for me to follow him back through the house. At this point, I’d probably go anywhere with him if it meant getting a temporary escape.

Raleigh’s Junkyard is a wasteland of old, forgotten cars and the smell of oil and gasoline.

I trail behind Mason as he walks through an opening in the chain-link fence, taking in the mountains of car parts and feeling confused. He hadn’t told me where we were going, and I trusted him enough not to ask. I’m not sure what good being here will do, but he walks with purpose.

He looks at me as I fall into line with him, sticking his hands into his pockets. “Your car would’ve been taken here after it was totaled,” he explains, keeping his voice low. “I want to see if we can find it.”

“I don’t even know what kind of car it is.”

“It’s a 2009 Ford Focus,” he says automatically, and I tilt my head, squinting. His lips part, a hint of embarrassment creeping onto his features. “I know cars.”

“Okay,” I say, drawing out the word, secretly feeling flattered that he paid enough attention to me to have the make and model of my car memorized, despite the fact that we aren’t truly friends. “Lucky I have you here, then.”

The junkyard is eerily empty, the heavy machinery frozen in time, waiting to be used again. It’s closed today, and the fact that Mason was able to find a way in so easily leads me to believe he’s done this more than once.

He seems bound and determined to locate the vehicle, dutifully scanning every inch of the yard. All I can see is space junk and hunks of metal, and I feel disgruntled as I step over a loose tire.

After what feels like an eternity of searching, Mason stiffens, pointing straight ahead. “There!”

Sections of black poke out from beneath a large mound of scraps, and I have no clue how he was even able to notice it under all that garbage. He hurries forward, gesturing for me to follow him.

“Help me uncover it,” he says.