My 1967 Shelby GT500. Black with white racing stripes. Or what's left of her.
The front end is crumpled like a tin can. Hood buckled upward. Windshield shattered into a spider-web of cracks, some sections completely gone. Driver's side door dented inward from impact. But—
"The frame," I whisper.
Marcus crouches beside the wheelchair. "What?"
"The frame. It's not twisted. Look—" I point with my good hand. "The rear axle's intact. Engine block might be okay. She hit front-on but the impact distributed across the crumple zones—the car did what it was designed to do. Protected me."
"You're analyzing crash physics right now?"
"She's savable, Marcus." I look up at him. "She's hurt, but she's savable."
Lucy catches up, out of breath. Stops when she sees the car. "Oh, babe…"
"I'm keeping her."
"Alena—"
"I'm keeping her. I'll pay whatever it costs. Full restoration. I don't care if it takes a year."
Marcus stands, walks around the car slowly, inspecting with the methodical attention of someone who understands machinery and violence in equal measure. He crouches by the rear, runs his hand along the frame with surprising gentleness. Checks the suspension, the axles, theundercarriage. Pops the hood—or what's left of it—and peers at the engine.
He comes back. "You're right. Frame's solid. Engine's probably toast, but you can rebuild. It'll cost a fortune."
"I have a fortune."
"It'll take months."
"I have months. And I'll be sober for all of them."
Lucy's head snaps toward me. "What?"
"I was drunk," I say flatly. "Point-two-one. I've been drunk most nights for six months. I have a problem. And I'm done pretending I don't."
Lucy kneels beside me, takes my good hand. "Alena…"
"This car saved my life tonight. Literally. The crumple zones, the frame strength, the engineering—she protected me when I was too drunk and too broken to protect myself." I look at the Mustang. "She deserves better than to rot in a scrapyard. And I deserve better than to rot in a bottle."
Silence. Then Lucy's voice, thick with tears: "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. We save the car. And we save you."
Marcus nods. "I know a guy. Best resto shop in London. Specializes in classic American muscle. He'll treat her right." He pauses. "And I know another guy. Runs a recovery program. Discreet. For people who can't afford public rehab."
I stare at the Mustang. At the damage. At the wreckage that can be fixed if I'm willing to do the work.
"Thank you," I whisper.
Marcus squeezes my shoulder—gentle, grounding. "We're family. We save what we can."
• • •
That night, back at my flat—Lucy and Marcus refuse to let me stay alone—I sit on the couch wrapped in blankets while Lucy makes tea and Marcus orders takeaway. The Mustang is being transported to the restoration shop tomorrow. Full teardown. Complete rebuild. Six months minimum, the guy said. Maybe a year.
I can wait a year. I've waited six months for a man who's never coming back. I can wait a year for a car that will.
