Glenn’s brown eyes were bright. “We got the clutch and the transmission repaired. There was something wrong with the electrical system, too, but the FIB garage guys fixed it, no charge. We would have gotten it to you sooner,” he said, “but the DMV office didn’t understand what I was trying to do so it took three trips down there to get it transferred to your name.”

“You guys bought me a car?” I said, excitement bubbling up into my voice.

Glenn grinned and handed me a zebra-striped key on a purple rabbit’s foot key chain. “The money the FIB put into it just about equals what we owed you. I’ll drive you home. It’s a stick, and I don’t think you can handle shifting gears yet with your arm.”

Heart suddenly pounding, I fell into step beside him, scanning the lot. “Which one?”

Glenn pointed, and the sound of my heels on the pavement faltered as I saw the red convertible, recognizing it. “That’s Francis’s car,” I said, not sure what I was feeling.

“That’s okay, isn’t it?” Glenn asked, suddenly concerned. “It was going to be scrapped. You aren’t superstitious, are you?”

“Um…” I stammered, drawn forward by the shiny red paint. I touched it, feeling the clean smoothness. The top was down, and I turned, smiling. Glenn’s worried frown eased into relief. “Thank you,” I whispered, not believing it was really mine. It was mine?

Steps light, I walked to the front, then the back. It had a new vanity plate: runnin’. It was perfect. “It’s mine?” I said, heart racing.

“Go on, get in,” Glenn said, his face transformed by his pleased enthusiasm.

“It’s wonderful,” I said, refusing to cry. No more expired bus passes. No more standing in the cold. No more disguise charms just so they would pick me up.

I opened the door. The leather seat was warm from the afternoon sun and as smooth as chocolate milk. The cheerful dinging of the door being opened was heaven. I put in the key, checked that it was in neutral, pushed in the clutch, and started it up. The thrum of the engine was freedom itself. I shut the door and beamed at Glenn. “Really?” I asked, voice cracking.

He nodded, beaming.

I was delighted. With my broken arm, I couldn’t safely manage the gearshift, but I could try all the buttons. I turned on the radio, thinking it must be an omen when Madonna thundered out. I turned “Material Girl” down and opened the glove box just to see my name on the registration. A thick yellow business-size envelope slid out, and I picked it up off the floor.

“I didn’t put that there,” Glenn said, his voice carrying a new concern.

I brought it to my nose, my face going slack as I recognized the clean scent of pine. “It’s from Trent.”