Midnight

While the previous few days were relatively pleasant as far as temperature, Mother Nature has decided to crank up the thermostat for today. It has been hot from the start, and with the early afternoon sun beaming down now, I'm sure that the temperature is flirting with triple digits if it hasn't ticked past them already.

While I always bring plenty of water back to the yard with us while we work, I brought back three jugs packed with ice to compensate for the scorching temps. Even so, after three hours, the ice had virtually disappeared from one jug – and as I finish this particular container off, I find the last of the water to be getting warm.

"I'll take that after you're done with it," Midnight speaks up, returning to the Trailduster with another part pull. She tosses a trim piece in the back of the truck as I grimace to finish off the last unpalatable swig of lukewarm water.

"Nope, this one's dead," I reply, turning the container inverted and shaking it in demonstration.

"You part camel or something? I only got one drink out of that," Midnight quips, shaking her head before turning her focus to the next water jug in line.

"No, I just really like staying hydrated in heat like this," I reply. The comment makes me take note of the bead of sweat currently clinging to my brow. I wick it away with my forearm before it decides to drip into my eye and burn.

"I want to stay hydrated too, but I'm not drinking like it's going out of style," she jabs back, seizing the handle of another water jug with her ability. Despite her protests to my hydration pace, Midnight drinks deeply from the jug.

"Where are you off to next, and what part are you looking for?" I ask, curious about her plans to figure out my next move.

"Striker plate and hood latch for a '71 to '74 Dodge Charger," she answers, taking a brief pause from her thirst-quenching to also look over the water jug. "You just prepped this jug recently, didn't you?"

"I did this morning. Knew we were gonna need a lot of water today, so I wrapped some wire around the handle quickly and slapped some steel scrap on the bottom with duct tape," I explain, pointing out the patches of silvery tape that keep the temporary modifications in place.

"Color me impressed at the forethought on display today," she gushes before taking another drink of water.

"Yeah well... just wanna take care of best girl, you know?"

Upon making my comment, the water in Midnight's mouth she hasn't swallowed yet is spat out in a spray and a short cough.

"Wow, that bad, huh?" I question.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for that stupid comment," she rasps, clearing her throat. Despite the supposed unwelcome surprise, Midnight is unable to keep a sly grin from making itself known upon her muzzle.

"Oh. I was talking about the water."

Midnight allows her amusement to display this time as her grin widens – though her creased brow makes her appear devious, to say the least. "Try to save some water for the fish, stupid," she sasses, tossing me the water jug.

I take a quick swig to relish the cold water before setting it back in the truck "And tell me, what fish?" I retort, waving my arms out to direct her attention to the arid landscape around us.

"I'm absolutely shocked you were able to put two and two together."

"What's the number twenty-two got to do with it?"

"Alright, I think you need to get back to work now," Midnight laments, grabbing her tool bag and heading back off down the lane before I can give her another stupid comment.

"Have fun!" I call after her. She turns her head to eye me for a brief moment before shaking her head again.

But, she's right – there's still work to be done. I grab a few screwdrivers and a pair of pliers from my toolbox and head down the row on foot, just a few cars down, in the opposite direction of Midnight.

There are a lot of Chrysler parts to be pulled today, and I've parked the Trailduster dead-center of the group. Midnight isn't walking far to get to the B-bodies, while I'm in the thick of some F-bodies – hunting a glove box door for a Plymouth Volare. I'm used to oddities, but the order still surprises me; the cars were not built at a high quality and suffered from rust. It also didn't help that they were meant to be more economical transportation – use and throw away. They were not particularly beloved or cared for. Not like the beloved A-bodies that they replaced, such as the Dart, the Valiant, and the sportier Duster.

But I suppose I could be getting parts for a Volare Roadrunner. It was mainly a spoiler and sticker package, but they came with a peppy small block V8 and are still neat in the mid-to-late-'70s cheesy kind of way. There's also a chance of it being a Petty Kit Car package – though again, it's mostly show, not much go. Hard to miss em if the supplied '43' decals were applied to the doors.

Regardless of the home it will find, an order is an order. However, I will have to double-check between the Volare and its Dodge sibling, the Aspen – the glove box doors should be the same, but I'm not certain about that.

The first one I come across is a Dodge Aspen wagon, and it's a no-go just at a glance; the customer specifically asked for a door from a black interior, and this one is tan.

Following up right beside my first target is also a dud – a Dodge Aspen coupe that was missing the passenger door when I brought it back. While I remember putting a tarp over it in the delusional hope that it would save the interior, the remnants of the shredded cover are all that remain after the abuse of the sun and wind over time. I don't even bother looking inside – that interior is guaranteed to be shot just from exposure to the elements.

Well, this is going fantastic... I don't have many of these F-bodies lying around, so the fact I've already come up empty twice in quick succession is troubling.

Fortunately, the old 'third time's a charm' rings true as I circle around a Volare four-door sedan. While I can already tell the interior is black, I brush some of the dust away from the passenger front window to take a look. The interior looks to have taken a beating from the sun's rays, particularly the now cracked and split dashboard padding and vinyl seats – but from what I can see, the glovebox door being down far enough and recessed into the shade may have saved it.

I'm already flinching as I pop open the door, awaiting the surge of contained heat to escape. It never gets any better with experience, nor does the stench of weathered upholstery and stale air that hits me within that same tsunami. I turn my head away and take a breath as I fan the door open and closed rapidly, hoping to expel some more of that scorching heat and odor inside before I ease my way in

Sitting inside is still a tall task thanks to the vinyl upholstery; I grab the floor mat from the front passenger footwear and toss it onto the seat before gingerly inching my ass down. The car's ancient suspension groans under the presence of a new weight as I take a seat – followed by the skittering of something underneath the car making a quick exit.

Sorry critter – you can have your home back in a couple of minutes.

I pop open the glove box and set to work attacking the screws that hold the hinge to the door itself. After about three of them drop free onto the floor, the relative silence of my work is broken by a low growl just off to my right. I turn my head, finding myself just a few feet from a coyote, who stands at the rear edge of the open passenger door.

That would probably be the disturbed critter, who bears its teeth in anger and growls again as I eyeball the slender canine. Usually, these things are skittish, so the fact that this one is standing its ground rather than hightailing it is out of the norm of my experiences. Maybe she's got pups in a den underneath?

But if the matted and patchy brown and grey fur wasn't a clue, its trembling jaw and the strands of drool trailing from its mouth seal the deal that there is something seriously wrong with this animal.

Shitshitshit. It's too close to the door right now for me to have any confidence in reaching out and pulling the door close. I do not want to risk being bitten by this thing. My attention turns to what I have at my disposal to help – and I hope it's enough.

"Eat Phillips head, cocksucker!" I shout, hucking the tool in my hand at the rabid animal. The screwdriver conks the coyote in the head; surprised by the assault, the coyote recoils back far enough that I can quickly reach over to the open passenger door and slam it shut.

I'm safe from its bite now, but it's hardly a solution to my issue as the coyote is now riled enough to attack, throwing itself at the door and snarling madly. I scoot away from the door a bit, grimacing as the vinyl seat reminds me of its sizzling hot presence beyond the floormat I was using. Meanwhile, the coyote decides to get a better view, rearing up and scrabbling at the door glass while painting it with saliva.

This car isn't a Pinto, and that's not a Saint Bernard outside – but I'm still not enjoying this half-assed homage to a horror movie. If I wasn't already sweating enough, the enclosed space I'm now trapped in magnifies my perspiration, letting me know I can't stay in here for very long unless I would like to experience heatstroke.

I roll down the window just a crack, instinctively flinching every time the coyote lunges and snaps its jaws at me. "Just make like a tree and fuck off already!" I shout at it – more in frustration than actual hope it will scamper off. Obviously, it does nothing, so my next plan of action is equally as simple.

"Midnight!" I shout louder. "I need a little help over here!"

Beyond the continuing sounds of the frenzied coyote throwing itself at my enclosure, I cannot make out any response from Midnight, nor spy her form appearing over the horizon. I give it a few more moments and another shout before deciding I'm going to have to make the moves myself.

I start inching my way along the bench seat and toward the driver's door, hoping the animal is too stupid to realize what I'm doing – or the simple fact I'm moving to the other side. So far, it seems perfectly content to scrabble at the door glass on the passenger side than move elsewhere.

Within reach of the driver's side door handle, I take my chance now. In a swift motion, I wrench the handle and fling the door open, scrambling out and climbing up onto the roof of the Aspen wagon right beside the car I was just trapped in. The sheetmetal underneath my feet bows just a bit with a hollow metallic crack, but I keep my footing.

Hell, that went better than expected. But Cujo's little cousin isn't willing to give up as he darts around the Volare and up to the Aspen. Seemingly emboldened by my acrobatics, the coyote takes a leap up onto the hood, ready to lunge up to the roof where I am.

Fortunately, he doesn't account for the slickness of the windshield glass and slips down the first time while I move toward the back end of the wagon.

"MIDNIGHT!" I get one more shout in before the dog is up on the roof. As it scrambles toward me, and knowing I likely can't outrun the damn thing without a head start at the very least, I cock my leg back, wait for him to get closer, and kick at him.

My timing and my kick are solid, connecting my boot with his snout. It's a rather sickening sound and feeling as I thump him in the nose with the end of my boot. The coyote emits a sharp cry of pain and stumbles backward out of instinct – before rolling off the roof of the wagon. I don't wait around to see if he gets up – I jump down and start to run as fast as I can through the sand toward the Trailduster. It's not a far jaunt, and I have a rifle in there that can take care of this problem – as long as I can get there without being bit.

The canine may be small, but I guarantee he can run faster than me – and a quick glance behind is all I need to see I'm still being pursued. I'm not going to guesstimate how far it is behind or how much time I have. It's too close for comfort.

As I turn my head to focus all of my strength and energy forward, I catch sight of something dark whipping past my periphery in the blink of an eye – followed quickly thereafter by a sickening thump and a sharp yelp of pain once again. The suddenness of these events forces me to look back again—

"Midnight!"

At once I halt in my tracks and turn around. Just a few paces away, Midnight hovers above the coyote that was just a second ago giving pursuit. A slow steady beat of Middie's wings keeps her head and forehooves upright, while her hind legs hang down, looking ready for a kick if need be. But the coyote lays still on its side in the sand, whimpering faintly to accompany its ragged, shallow breathing. Blood drips from its snout, leaving a small pool of crimson to sink and meld with the copper sand.

Her face lined with a cross sneer, Midnight lightens up a bit as her gaze shifts to me. "I thought you were fucking around the first time you yelled," she mutters, her voice betraying a hint of guilt.

"I suppose I could have been a bit more... uh, clear, I guess. Sort of panicking a bit."

Midnight doesn't respond; instead, she stares intently at the injured coyote as she touches down on her hooves and folds away her wings.

"I'll go get my rifle out of the truck and put the thing out of its misery," I remark, thumbing back toward the Trailduster.

"I finish what I start," Midnight comments in a cold, emotionless tone. She warily steps around the animal before raising a hoof and slamming down firmly on its neck. There's a sickening audible crunch that turns my stomach as the coyote convulses for a brief moment, then falls completely still.

"Jesus," I mumble, awestruck by her actions and demeanor.

"What?" Midnight asks, looking up at me for just a split second as she circles and eyes the kill. "It beats making the thing wait a few more minutes while you grabbed something to kill it with."

"Yeah, I just — I dunno. I didn't expect that, I guess," I manage to stammer.

Satisfied that the coyote is well and truly neutralized, Midnight walks over to me, her face suddenly lined with concern.

"You didn't get bit, did you?" It's a question both of us ask one another almost in unison. Also in mirror images of each other, we both end up shaking our heads.

"I'm assuming you hit it with something or kicked it in the nose, because I didn't do that," Midnight speaks up, shooting one more glance at the lifeless body. "I figured if it was that aggressive, there was something wrong with it. It was completely focused on you – I kicked it in the ribs before it knew what was coming."

The picture Midnight paints allows me to take a breath I hadn't realized was lacking in the last several seconds.

It's a gesture that makes Midnight narrow her eyes and smirk at me. "Come on, you gotta give me more credit than that," she adds. "You really think I'm gonna let some stupid animal like that get a jump on me?"

"I never got a good look at what I did – I just kicked it in hopes that would drop the stupid thing and I ran," I clarify.

"Mm. Must have been a weak kick."

"Ha. Ha. Fuck you."

"I only joke because I know you're fine," she answers back, brushing my side and adding a light bump with her hip.

"Yeah, thanks to you," I add, patting her side before my thought drifts to another moment I realize I just witnessed. "Hey – I got to see you fly!"

I can't help but notice Midnight shies away from me just a bit following my comment as if flinching in response. It's an oddity that I can't let vanish without a word. "You aren't embarrassed by that... are you?" I gently float to her.

"I—A little bit, I guess," she admits with some reluctance, leaning against me. "It just feels sort of awkward, I'm sure it looks awkward as fuck, something as big as me flitting abo—"

"Shut up," you interrupt her, lightly thumping her side. "That was fucking cool! Don't be embarrassed by it!"

Midnight looks up at me, studying my expression after that comment. I nod at her and flash a smile to let her know there's no bullshit behind my remarks.

"I—I guess maybe it just feels like that because I don't do it much," she comments. After a moment, Midnight trots away from me, fanning out her wings yet again. With a few powerful pumps of those feathered limbs that move enough air to hit me with a breeze and a bit of dust, she takes to the air again, hovering just a few feet from the ground and turning to face me. "You think I'm a pretty good flier, huh?" she sings.

I think she was trying to be sassy about it, to mask the insecurity that flashed up before my reassurances. But her face doesn't show any hint of smugness – it's instead a genuine, proud smile almost stretching from ear to ear.

"Yeah, just like that," I respond with a chuckle. In the back of my mind, I wonder if the situation today is the only reason I would have ever seen her fly. After all, she mentioned it a few times, but other than the occasional glide to skip steps...

Is gliding that much different than full-fledged flight? Midnight has had a lot of hangups on seemingly innocent things in the past, so it's believable. Regardless, even as my adrenaline is starting to fade from the threatening situation just minutes ago – I'm sort of glad that it happened.

"Anyway, I should head back to what I was doing. No other coyotes besides that one, right?" Midnight asks.

"If I do stumble across another one, I'll be sure to let you know," I joke in response.

Midnight chuckles just a bit before setting off – through the air at low altitude, back toward her work area.

Maybe that's a view I'm going to see a bit more now. I'm certainly not opposed to it.