It’s coming from the garage, but nobody ever uses the garage for parking. It’s always been used to hold mowers and oilcans and garden tools. And Grandpa’s woodworking. I shiver in the shade and roll forward, put my ear to the door real slowly. I can hear it better now, though I still can’t tell what it is. It’s kind of like a soft purr.

I bang on the metal door, and it’s so loud I scare myself. Nobody answers. I lean all the way down and grab the handle and try to pull. The door is so heavy, it lifts only an inch or two. But out from that inch drifts a cloud of car fumes that makes me turn and cough.

I bang and bang on the door until my palm’s on fire. I lock my wheelchair in place and use both hands to grab at the handle and lift. Each time I can only get it cracked. Grandpa’s in there, I know it. And I can’t get to him.

I can’t stop crying.

I call Mom.

She doesn’t answer.

I leave a message that is just me crying.

“Grandpa!” I ram the door with my chair and almost tip over. But it’s enough to knock it up and get it moving, and I pull and pull. The skin’s ripping off my hands. It doesn’t matter. The door is up.

It’s up and I’m coughing in a cloud of exhaust. The Buick’s in there, but I can’t get the chair between it and the wall. Up in front, Grandpa sits slumped over the wheel like he’s fallen asleep.

16 Buoyed