A guy named Cam buys my car. It’s not short for Cameron. He’s always been Cam. You can just tell.
Cam has a square jaw and a buzz cut, an earring in the left ear. He looks about my age and I’m surprised when he tells me he’s buying the car for his son.
“I had a Celica when I turned 16,” I tell him. We’re finalizing the paperwork, such as it is. I’ve scrawled out a handwritten agreement and he’s signing it, leaning against the car’s hood.
“Nah. A hatchback.”
My father came home from a business trip and asked: “So you want a car?” Two weeks later I had one. Sometimes gifts came from the sky like that, chugging up to me out of that swath of blue.
He hands me a pair of hundred-dollar-bills. I’m selling the car as is: dented, dead, in need of repair. He has it towed away. I wave as it goes.