The man opens up his over-sized coat and brings out an overtly large umbrella. It shines bright yellow against the gunmetal grey of our surroundings. He shakes it out while we are still somewhat covered by the awning of the building. He gestures to me to join him under the umbrella, but I only scowl and walk away. He jogs to keep up with me.
"Where are we going?" he asks when we are side-by-side.
"I know a man that specializes in rogue mechanics. You know that car, Christine?"
"Steven King? Yeah."
"That was cake for him." I speed up as we cross a bridge. The houses grow closer, suffocatingly near.
"What do you mean, cake?" the man said, puzzled. "Christine was a fictional car."
"That's what they want you to think," I say lowly, skirting a steel drum fire on a street corner.
"Well now, who's 'they?'" He nearly collides with me as I stop in front of a gloomy stoop, the facade worn as a ship battered by the salty sea.
"They don't want their secrets being known," I reply. I reach up to press the buzzer, the name on the plate worn beyond recognition. I knew that years ago, when the place had been bright and new, the name read only 'They'.
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