Step Children

3.

Scott sat in a field, surrounded by goldenrod. The ground around him was scorched for 20 feet in each direction.

He was looking off to the horizon. A sunset might have been visible, were it not for the dark, rolling clouds. Rainfall was imminent, but not yet upon him.

The wind had picked up too. The goldenrod swayed in waves under the barrage of gusts.

He picked himself up off the ground. "I know this is a dream!" he shouted into the storm. "I want to speak to the man who was in my dream before! If you know Harold Wellington, please come and revisit me!"

Thunder rumbled in the distance. It shook the ground on which he stood. The field he was in sprawled for miles with no apparent end.

Then he heard it. A shout, but so distant it was no louder than an echoing whisper. His own name repeated again and again. "Scott... Scott...! Scott...!"

His head whipped around. His mother was standing just beyond the circle of burnt earth. She was screaming for him, but he could barely hear her.

"...What?" he said, confused.

She pointed and he looked to hisright.

Grandma, Harold's wife, was holding a lit candle just on the other side of the circle. A black veil covered her eyes.

She took a short breath, and blew out the candle.

Scott's eyes snapped open. He was on the couch at the hunting lodge.

He drew a sharp, raspy inhale into his empty chest. It felt as if someone were squeezing him from both sides. It took him a few minutes to finally breathe normally again.

...

It had to be the damn fuel pump. That truck was tried and true, yet it decided to crap out on him when he was 45 minutes from his apartment. His boss wouldn't take not having an operable vehicle as an excuse for absence, so he had until the end of the day to fix it or he was in hot water.

The barn was leaning slightly to the west. Scott didn't know much about structure, so he pulled the door open with caution.

Dirt and dust danced in the sunlight the shined through the windows and cracks in the wooden walls. He scoured the bench for the tools necessary for dropping the tank and pulling that damn fuel pump.

Scott's eyes adjusted to the darkness of the barn. His eyes fixed on something shrouded by a sheet in the back corner. It was next to an old tractor, that was painted grey with dry mud. The tractor broke up its silhouette, but he couldn't look away.

As he cleared some of the items that were in the way, it was easy to see that it was a car of some sort beneath the sheet.

He ripped back the sheet and found himself staring at a 1981 T-top Turbo Trans Am.

It was black with gold accents. Scott sneaked past his Grandpa's pack-rat's nest and opened the door far enough to slide into the driver's seat.

His hands ran across the steering wheel until they settled at 10 and 2. He exhaled as his lips spread into a grin.

The gear shifter felt like it worked just fine, or so he assumed without starting it. There was no key in the ignition, so he dropped the visor, hoping to have a set drop into his lap. No luck.

The glove compartment wouldn't open right away. He squeezed the hinge and punched it with his other hand.

It popped open. Among the registration and insurance info, which was good until the fall, was a sealed envelope addressed to no one.