The first light of Friday filtered through the thin curtains of Daniel's room. He opened his eyes, surprised by the stillness. No smell of breakfast. No clatter of pans. No low hum of the TV in the kitchen.
He checked the time. 6:47 AM.
Weird. His parents were always up by now—his mom humming, his dad griping about the coffee. But the house was silent, like it was holding its breath.
He got dressed quietly. Brushed his teeth. Slipped on his jacket and stepped out into the chilly morning air. There was a fine mist clinging to the edges of the lawn, and the sky was painted in pale orange.
Claude's voice flickered into his mind. "Your sleep cycle stabilized at six hours, twenty-three minutes. Not ideal, but functional. Cortisol levels are within tolerable range."
"Good morning to you too."
"I don't understand why you insist on this."
Daniel unlocked the garage and tugged it open with both hands. Metal creaked. Dust swirled.
Jimmy sat there like a loyal, rusting hound. The red 1989 Corolla looked even more miserable in the morning light.
One of the side mirrors was held together with electrical tape. A patch of primer peeked from beneath the left door. The muffler had its own rhythm—something between a wheeze and a cough.
"I really don't understand why you insist on this," Claude repeated, louder now. "You are a multimillionaire. No—pardon—technically a billionaire as of last week's valuation. And you're seriously about to drive that to school?"
"Yes."
"It's leaking oil like a dying horse. That tire is losing pressure by the minute. It squeaks when it turns."
"He," Daniel corrected, opening the door. "He squeaks."
"HE squeaks like he's in pain. This car is a safety hazard, a PR catastrophe, and a personal insult to the idea of luxury."
Daniel slid in, cranked the ignition. Jimmy coughed. Sputtered. Then wheezed to life with a sound like a smoker's laugh. The dashboard lights flickered in patterns that shouldn't exist.
"Still runs," Daniel said, patting the steering wheel.
"Barely. The engine sounds like it's chewing gravel."
The moment he backed out of the driveway, Jimmy emitted a loud, prolonged squeak that echoed down the street.
"SQUEAAAAK," Claude mimicked. "Oh good, I was hoping the whole neighborhood would hear us leave."
Daniel chuckled. "He's got character."
"He's got a death wish."
He shifted into drive, and Jimmy lurched forward like a startled goat. A soft trail of smoke puffed from the rear exhaust. Something small—maybe a bolt—pinged off and bounced behind them. Daniel didn't stop.
When he pulled into the student parking lot twenty minutes later, every head turned. Even the half-asleep seniors waiting for homeroom stared.
It wasn't admiration.
Even by broken teenager standards, Jimmy was a new level of low.
A boy standing next to the bus drop-off muttered, "Dude… the bus would've been better."
Daniel parked with a final grind from the brakes. The car hissed like it had just run a marathon on one lung.
Claude's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Majestic arrival, your highness. Shall I alert the media?"
Daniel stepped out, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"Shall we?" he asked.
"If I had a body, I'd walk."
He walked toward the school building as Jimmy let out one final, dramatic creak.
Behind him, a washer rolled off the roof and clinked to the pavement.
Daniel didn't turn around.
He smiled.
The school hallway smelled like cheap disinfectant and half-slept teenagers. He passed a group near the main office huddled around a radio. The voice of a newscaster crackled through the static.
"...Congress has officially passed the Authorization for Use of Military Force, giving the President legal authority to retaliate against those responsible for Tuesday's attacks..."
Daniel slowed.
Claude was already feeding him the details. "Signed today. Near unanimous approval. No sunset clause. Legally, this is a blank check."
He kept walking.
"So what does that mean?" a student asked.
"It means war," someone else said flatly. "And not just in Afghanistan."
Daniel kept his head down. No one really noticed him. They were too wrapped in the moment. Too young to see the shape of history being inked right in front of them.
He reached his locker and spun the dial.
Claude whispered, more quietly now. "Today is the first official step toward two decades of war."
Daniel didn't respond.
Not yet.
After the final bell rang, Daniel met Natan by the bike racks.
"Movie night?" Natan asked, tossing his backpack over one shoulder.
"Yeah. Rush Hour 2's still playing downtown."
They gathered a small crew—Emily, Jake, Jennifer, and a guy named Ale. Spirits were weird, tense but eager. Everyone needed a break.
Daniel gestured toward the parking lot. "You guys ready to ride in style?"
Then they saw Jimmy.
"Absolutely not," Jennifer said instantly.
"Oh my God," Emily whispered. "That thing has patches. Like denim patches. On metal."
Jake circled it. "Is that… duct tape holding the bumper?"
"Yes," Daniel said, opening the passenger door with a slow creak. "And love. Lots of love."
"I think I'd rather walk," Alex muttered.
Only Natan looked genuinely amazed. "Dude… is this the '89 model with the inline-four?" He pressed a palm reverently to the hood. "You don't see these anymore. This thing's a survivor."
Daniel grinned. "He's Jimmy."
"I'm in," Natan said, already calling shotgun. "Back seat's for cowards."
"Back seat's for survivors," Jake muttered, climbing in anyway.
They squeezed in. Jimmy sagged under the weight.
Claude sighed. "This is a war crime against comfort and common sense."
Daniel turned the key. Jimmy roared—well, whimpered—into action.
"Hold onto something," Daniel said.
"I am something," Claude replied.
Smoke coughed out the exhaust as they pulled out of the lot. People watched them go, not with envy, but curiosity—like witnessing a historical reenactment involving an antique and questionable engineering.
At every red light, Emily gripped the door. "This door moves when we stop. Is it supposed to move?"
"No," Claude answered. "It absolutely is not."
When they pulled into the theater parking lot, Jimmy released a long hiss and promptly stalled.
"I think he died," Jennifer said.
"No," Daniel said, stepping out. "He's just resting."
Natan patted the roof. "Absolute legend."
They headed inside, laughter already building between them. For a night, they were just kids again.
And Jimmy? He waited outside, proudly leaking on the asphalt like it was a badge of honor.
The movie was loud, fast, and exactly what they needed. Carter and Lee ran through explosions and one-liners, and for ninety minutes, nothing else mattered.
After, standing under the flickering lights of the theater lobby, Daniel tossed out a suggestion. "Arcade?"
"Nah," said Natan
Jake shook his head. "Gotta be home early. My parents are freaking out about everything."
"Same," said Jennifer, already scrolling through her old flip phone.
Alex just gave a half shrug and walked toward the bus stop. They did not want a ride home.
In the end, only Emily lingered.
She looked at Jimmy. Then at Daniel.
"I'll ride with you," she said.
Daniel blinked. "Really?"
"I want to see what else changed in you over the summer."
He tried to laugh it off. "I got taller."
"Not that kind of change."
They climbed into Jimmy. The arcade wasn't far. One of those neon-soaked spots with carpet that buzzed under blacklight and machines that ate quarters like candy.
As they drove, Emily glanced over.
"You talk different now. Think different."
Daniel kept his eyes on the road. "Yeah. Things change."
She tilted her head. "Do you hear voices?"
Daniel chuckled. "Funny you ask, why ?"
"Because sometimes, it feels like… like there's two of you. One that looks at me like a classmate, and another that looks at me like he's already said goodbye."
He was quiet for a beat. Then: "I've got… something like multiple personalities."
Emily's expression didn't shift. She didn't flinch.
"One of them's named C."
There was a pause.
"Is C the one who calculates every answer in class before the teacher finishes the question?" she asked.
"Probably."
"Is he the one who stares at the sky like it's enjoying the colors?"
Daniel nodded slowly.
"I like him," Emily said.
Daniel smirked. "It's complicated."
"So are most people worth liking."
Jimmy coughed as they turned the corner, leaking smoke like he was sighing with them.
Claude's voice slipped into his thoughts. "You should be careful."
"I am," Daniel said aloud.
Emily looked at him. "What?"
"Just talking to myself."
She smiled. "Maybe I like both of you."
Daniel didn't answer. He just drove. And for once, Jimmy didn't squeak.