At auction, the Cobra rolled under bright lights while bidders studied every detail. The auctioneer’s voice rose as the price climbed. Two hundred thousand. Three hundred thousand. Four hundred thousand. At $420,000, the hammer fell.
Sold.
I smiled for the cameras, but inside I felt release. The Cobra was gone again, but this time legally, properly, and with its value named out loud.
Months later, I bought a 1970 Plymouth Cuda from a barn outside Flagstaff. It was rough, dusty, and imperfect. It was not about grief or the past. It was about building a future that belonged only to me.
I bought a new house with a detached garage, secure doors, cameras I controlled, and no spare key in Patricia’s purse. I restored the Cuda slowly. A teenage neighbor named Mia came by to watch, then to learn. Carmen visited with coffee. A retired electrician helped with the lights. The garage became a place of respect again.
Years later, the Cuda roared to life for the first time. Mia screamed with joy. Carmen laughed. I sat behind the wheel, hands shaking, and thought of Grandpa Harold.
I had built the next thing.
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