Get Out If You Can

Hunter | Wouldn't You Know

I straighten the buttons of my rented tuxedo as I check the alignment of the car I drove here. I don't really need to do that, to be honest. I'm great at parking. When you fit cars of all sizes expertly into an undersized, ratty garage, you're bound to be the pro.

And this car isn't even mine. The fancy guy across the street, whose name I still haven't bothered to look up, dropped off a pretty Mustang to our garage yesterday. He didn't want it back before three weeks' time, and Dad isn't planning on doing a job on it anytime soon — so let's just say my brain had one of its brilliant ideas. I've gotta say this — the guy didn't look like a Mustang guy at all. He had violet hair and ten thousand piercings, and while my dad was asking him what exactly did he want he pretended to be deaf half the time. If I owned the garage I would've kicked him out the second he walked in.

I check the parking position one more time. It's pretty presentable. I click open the door.

My second-hand formal shoes, that are too tight in too many places, scrape the gravelly road that leads to the main entrance of Calleja manor. I shade my eyes from the cool, winter sunlight with my palm, as I take in the manor. It's really, really tall — it's like five Callenfield mansions stacked one on top of the other. Sunlight glints off the panes of a few narrow windows on the higher floors.

I didn't even know this sort of a place existed right here in Callenfield. I scan the rest of the cars in the parking lot. To give you a brief overview, it looks like a mini luxury dealership. There's literally every brand in here, from sleek black Carreras to ancient sedans. Dad would go crazy just looking at the amount of business he could make with these.

That gets me thinking. It's funny that they've never paid our garage a visit, and we're more or less the only local people in the business. And we're very economical, plus we do a kinda good job. I know I sound like a TV commercial.

Well. Maybe they were the kind that equated price to quality. I couldn't blame them.

I check my reflection in the rear view mirror of the Mustang. Everything's in order, except for my very unruly red hair. It makes my head look like it's on fire, and a very uncontrollable fire at that.

God, I'd forgotten to get a haircut. I'm always forgetting to get a haircut, most of the time on purpose — but nothing I can do about that now.

I walk to the entrance of the manor and climb up the stairs. I give two firm knocks on the oak doors.

There's a light, lingering creak, as the pricey wood scrapes the exotic marble of the floor. I try my best to look dignified, though there isn't a great chance of that — this morning I'd had to replace a faulty engine, and there wasn't much time after that to get dressed, again. Result: I smelled exactly like a bad combination of grease and gasoline.

Either way. I plaster a small smile on my face and look straight at the slowly creaking doors. I may look like an overenthusiastic flamingo, but I don't care anymore.

The doors open completely, but there's no one doing the opening. At least no one I can see. That is funny.

"Good evening, sir." I hear a croaky voice from somewhere below me, and I realize that there really was someone opening the door. A man about half my height is craning his neck to meet my eye. God, who let this guy work here? His skin looks like crumpled, papery folds, and his eyes are cloudy and tired. I don't want to keep this guy doing more work than he can.

I nod at him and walk into the house, closing the door behind me.

"Hello, sir," I say. "I'm here for the— "

"I know what you're here for, son," he says. His voice is serious and solemn, and I feel like I'm attending a funeral gathering instead of an interview.