it running until I had enough for a down payment that no one else contributed a penny toward.

The day I bought the Mazda, I sat in the dealership parking lot and cried with my forehead against the steering wheel.

Not because I was sad.

Because I was proud.

That car felt like a line in the sand.

It was the first expensive thing in my life that existed because I had patiently built toward it, not because anyone handed it to me and expected gratitude forever.

Dad’s first response was to ask why I hadn’t bought American.

That would’ve been annoying from anyone.

From a man standing beside a giant Cadillac he didn’t need, it was art.

The contrast between Wesley and me had always been ridiculous.

When Wesley turned twenty-four, Dad bought him a Jeep Wrangler outright.

When I turned twenty-four, Dad bought me a AAA membership and called it more practical.

He wasn’t wrong.

I used it three times that year.

Still.

The Saturday before the accident was family dinner night.

I drove to my parents’ house a little before six and parked my Mazda behind Dad’s Escalade in the driveway, my usual spot.

Mom was still mashing potatoes.

Dad was opening beers.

Wesley, as usual, was late enough that the meal had already started without him.

He finally showed up forty minutes behind schedule, smelling like cologne and excuses, and blamed traffic.

There is no real traffic in Mountaintop.

There is only Wesley taking too long to leave wherever he was before.

Dad didn’t say a word about the lateness.

He smiled, handed him a beer, and patted him on the back.

If that had been me, I would’ve gotten a speech about respect.

At dinner, Wesley started talking about some big business idea involving an app that would help people find parking spaces.

The entire pitch sounded like he had just discovered functions that already existed on every map service in America, but Dad leaned in like he was listening to an investor presentation.

Then Wesley glanced out the window, saw my Mazda in the driveway, and asked if he could borrow it later.

I laughed because I assumed he was kidding.

He wasn’t.

“No,” I said.

He gave me an exaggerated pout.

“Come on.

Just for tonight.

My Jeep smells like gas and I don’t want to take it out.”

“Then don’t take it out.”

Dad looked at me across the table.

“You really can’t let your brother use your car one time?”

“A car I bought two weeks ago? No.”

Wesley muttered something about me being dramatic.

I told him he was lucky I was only being dramatic and not realistic, because realistic would’ve included the twenty-three hundred dollars he still owed me.

That earned me Dad’s glare.

“Family doesn’t keep score,” he said.

It would’ve landed better if he weren’t the kind of businessman who remembered overdue invoices to the penny.

After dinner, Mom and I cleared plates while Dad and Wesley sat with beers and talked about the company.

Not work, exactly.

More like performance.

Wesley loved sounding involved in the business.

Dad loved hearing it.

When I went to get my purse and leave around ten, my keys were gone.

I checked the table, the kitchen counter, my coat pocket,