I am awoken to the sound of a door slamming shut and someone running down the stairs. My sleepy, blurred vision makes out the figure of my friend’s dad. With a look of concern on his face, he asks me, “Where is your car?” I wanted to laugh, turn back over, and fall back into my slumber, but I could see that he wasn’t kidding. The panic kicked in; my car was definitely stolen.

I threw on my boots and coat. Taking the stairs three at a time and sprinting out the front door, I round the corner to stare at an empty driveway.

There should’ve an old, red wagon, rusting on the sides and filled with garbage parked in my driveway, but there wasn’t. The deathtrap that toted me around for the summer in the miserable heat, with an air conditioner that died in the 60’s, wasn’t there. I barely wanted the thing, so who in their right mind would go to the length of stealing it? They could’ve offered me $5 for it, and I would’ve taken it.

I was royally confused. I had a distinct memory of locking the car, and taking the keys with me. The fact that the vehicle was so prehistoric that it didn’t even have an alarm would explain why no one woke up when the thief broke in. Maybe the they had miraculously discovered that if by smacking the dash with some effort, the car would actually go faster than it’s lofty average of 4 mph.

A month later I received a call from my dad saying the police had found the car. We went to the impound lot where it was taken, and I sprinted to the car as soon as I saw it. I had never thought I would be so happy to see a piece of garbage before, but I sure was. The fool had left it on the street when there was a snow emergency, and they had to plow the streets.That car might have been an absolute headache, but it was my headache.