Midnight

Things can't always go smoothly when part of the business involves shipping. Case in point today as I set about notifying a few unfortunate souls whose packages have disappeared en route.

An hour on the phone with the shipping company got me nowhere; while they acknowledge that somehow, about five orders have dropped off the face of the earth, they have no idea how or why, or if they will even turn up in the system again. With those orders already being over a week past the latest delivery date, I'm not going to make my patrons wait longer in the hopes those packages will mysteriously reappear. I'm betting they're gone for good.

Unlike in the past, I've been keeping good records of every purchase, undoubtedly aided by Midnight's website and the ordering system she set up. So far, I've gotten in touch with two of the five customers and offered either refunds or replacement parts, assuming I have them.

To my relief, I've yet to deal with anger or frustration from the other end; both customers retained patience and understanding, with one opting for a refund, and the other happy to await replacements to be shipped out.

This process has unfolded downstairs via cell phone on speaker as I sit at the counter. It gives me the opportunity to watch over Midnight as she fiddles with wires and hookups in the engine bay of the Chrysler. Not that she needs my help – I have yet to have my eyes or expertise requested.

I won't say it, but she's been making efficient work of everything that's needed attention during the reassembly process, which she's been eager to tackle. With her pace and lack of hiccups, it could be a matter of days before we try to crank the engine and hopefully hear it run for the first time in decades.

That's a thought mixed with both anticipation and anxiety, but I have more important matters on my hands right now – the business.

Setting aside the second order sheet that I've been able to contact, I pull up the next one and peruse it for the name and contact info. Fortunately, there's yet another phone number I can punch in, and I dial it up on my phone and hit connect.

It takes a moment for the little connection ditty to play, then the phone starts ringing. It's about midway through the third ring that the other end picks up. "Hello?"

"Hi, is this... Kenneth Johnson?" I stumble, having to check the sheet again for the name.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement – Midnight has abruptly pulled her head out of the engine bay to look my way with wide eyes. "Johnson?" she murmurs, just loud enough for me to make out.

I have to give her a funky look for that; Midnight hasn't batted an eye or shown interest in any of my calls thus far. Why the hell would this one stick out to her?

"Yeah. Ken, Kenneth, either or," the voice of a younger man speaks. "Who is this?"

"Hey, this is John from John's Vintage Auto Salvage. You had an order with us... oh, about two weeks ago now, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Set of chrome center caps for VW wheels and a shifter knob," he rattles off, confirming the order I have listed. "I noticed it's been over a week now and the tracking hasn't updated at all on the shipment..."

During this time, Midnight abandons her work and plots toward me and my phone on the counter. Her ears are perked up as the conversation rolls along, while her eyes are glued to the phone.

I put my hands out to either side with the palms up, utterly lost at her fixation right now. But if she notices my reaction, she doesn't flinch.

"Yeah, that's why I'm calling today – unfortunately, the company somehow lost your package in transit, and they don't have a clue where it is in the system," I explain, putting aside Midnight's bizarre behavior as best I can.

"Aww man..."

"Yeah, I'm sorry. But that's why I'm calling today – I'm not gonna make you wait to see if it will turn up a month down the road. I—" I can't help but pause as Midnight rears up and plants her front hooves on the counter. She leers down at my phone for a moment before shifting her vision to the order sheet still in front of me. I try shooing her away like a cat, but she snaps her jaws near my fingers in a surprisingly aggressive manner I'm not prepared for, forcing me to jerk my hand back on instinct.

"—er, sorry, lost my train of thought for a second," I chuckle, trying to play off my awkward moment of silence. "Anyway, I'm calling to ask if you want a refund, or if you want to wait for a replacement shipment of parts if I have them available."

"Yeah, I'd still like to get the parts if you have them. Aside from the cheaper price, I don't actually want new parts – do you know when you'll be able to have another shipment out? It's a birthday present, and ai thought I was planning well ahead of time..."

"That's him. That has to be him," Midnight murmurs under her breath, looking up at me now with eyes as wide as saucers.

"Er... what was that?" Kenneth asks on the other end. "I didn't quite catch it."

"Uh— no, that's my bad. My help is asking me something," I quickly lie. "I'm sorry, something has come up – can I call you back? Probably be this evening since I know you want the parts – I should be able to tell you if I have them."

"Yeah, that works. Thanks, John."

"No problem, have a good day." I tap the hangup button on my phone and make sure the call has ended before I look up again at the mare behind my current frustrations. "Midnight, what the hell are you doing? I don't need help looking like a dumbass, you know that."

But Midnight's expression retains a hard-edged seriousness unswayed by my irritation or attempt at a wisecrack. "John, that's him!" she cries out, slamming a hoof on the counter.

"Him. Being our customer, yes," I remark in a slow tempo, drawing a blank at Middie's hangup.

That only serves to draw her face into a cross expression as she snorts. "You dumbass – the man back at the lab that worked with me. The one that I think might have helped me get out of there. That Johnson." Her increasingly hushed tone brings the significance to me sooner than the explanation does. It's the same sort of hushed voice she seems to inadvertently speak in whenever recalling her past life as a test subject.

And with that, I recall the beginning of her recent issues – the sleepover with Starla. The sudden unearthing of a memory surrounding some fellow named Johnson who was assigned to her program and worked with her. One that she swelled upon for a whole day, and had considerations of seeking out before Starla and I talked her down.

I haven't heard her mention that name at all up until now – all from hearing the last name of a customer.

"Midnight, Johnson is a very common surname. I guarantee if you go looking through Facebook or some other social site – hell, even a phone book – you're gonna come up with tons of folks with that last name."

"It's not just the name – it's the voice!" she protests, almost desperate at this point. "I'd recognize it anywhere!"

"I had him on speakerphone, Mid. There's a good chance his voice was distorted from what it would sound like in real life – or even just through the phone normally," I counter, trying to be as polite as possible to defuse her inexplicable burst of fanaticism. "I'm sorry, I didn't understand what your focus was about this and I didn't mean to be a dick, but—"

"John, give me his order sheet," Midnight interrupts, unwilling to hear me out any further.

"Why? I'm still gonna need this, Mid," I remind her, putting my hand on top of the paper in front of me.

"His address is near here, isn't it?"

...frankly, I hadn't even looked at the address. My focus was everywhere but that, seeing as I don't have the parts right now. Taking my hand away and peering down through the information, I have hopes she's wrong, and this whole situation will fade away.

But somehow, I know she's right before I even locate the address. Perhaps she was able to read it upside down, but the how really doesn't matter. Kenneth's address is perhaps an hour and change from here at most, guesstimating off the top of my head.

"Midnight... what are we really looking for here?" I sigh, trying to keep myself open rather than argue. "Suppose somehow this is the dude that might have helped you out – where do you want to go with this information?"

"I— I need to know if he really helped me get out," Midnight mutters, reverting to staring at the dark screen of my cell phone. "I want to know... I want to know what happened. If my mind is really running through past memories. If it was all as miserable as I remember it to be. I want to know if it's all true, or if my head and time have made things worse than they ever really were."

"And say you get your answers what are you hoping to get out of it, Mid?" I reach over and place my hand under her chin, coaxing her to look at me again. "Is knowing that going to fix anything? Is it going to make anything better? You have to tell me, because I really don't know."

"I... I don't know. All of it just— it still bothers me. I feel like I have more questions than answers about all of it, especially since I've been having nightmares here and there that seem like genuine flashbacks I had forgotten. Only someone that was there can give me... I guess validate what I remember. Give me some final sense of closure. I just feel like now, between memories and dreams... I need to know. I need to have the definitive truth to organize myself. And maybe apologize for being a bit shitty with him, too." To her credit, Midnight realizes her own explanation is a jumbled mess of partial thoughts. The energy she's displayed has left her at this point, leaving Middie deflated as she drops back down off the counter.

Maybe it's more of... a final confrontation with the past. Coming face to face with it, confirming it, and finally putting it to rest. But is that a good idea? Aside from the physical danger if this guy not only is the same Johnson fellow and still works at that lab – what if all a meeting accomplishes is to dig up more horrors to experience a second time? Hasn't she been through enough?

But just saying no to her doesn't feel right to me.

"Midnight, even if we were able to confirm this is the same guy, you understand why I dislike the idea of contacting him about you, right? Just a phone conversation makes me uneasy."

"I do. It's not an easy idea for me to stomach, either," she admits, sounding almost ashamed of her tirade from moments ago. "I don't hate myself anymore, I don't carry hatred around anymore – I've put that all to rest and buried it. But it doesn't just make everything go away. Maybe I'll always carry a bit of pain around with me – but I don't want to carry 'what-ifs' around with me if I can help it. Letting this go, not even taking a chance to dig into this – I don't want that to haunt me. I need an acknowledgment of the hell I went through before I got to heaven." That final statement comes with a blush of embarrassment, but she doesn't shy away or correct herself. If anything, she doubles down on it with a thin smile to assure me.

"You know, for someone that gives me a lot of shit for that sort of thing, that was a pretty corny line," I comment in jest.

"Must have picked it up from you," she says, sticking her tongue out.

I suppose I can understand the feeling of being left with a 'what if' – and at least Midnight isn't delusional about the risks associated with contacting someone like this. But that... it really doesn't make it much better. I'm still at square one.

Hell, we really haven't started yet – there's no proof that this Kenneth Johnson is the mystery man aside from a couple of circumstances. If we were to push forward at all with questions, I need more evidence I don't need to look like an absolute loony to a customer.

"What if you ask him where he works?"

"What?"

Midnight rears up to meet me on the counter again. "What if— call him back, and just sort of... float the idea of working at a factory. Say one of your workers supposedly thought they recognized his voice from a prior job at a factory."

"You want me to call him back now just for a little social chat? Am I hearing you right?"

"Tell him we have his parts. I'm sure we do – it's old Beetle parts," Midnight reasons.

"I'm not going to do that unless I know for sure. And what are we going to do if he does work at a factory? EquisCo, assuming that is your origin – that's not the only factory around. Asking him about a specific one seems like I'd give off stalker vibes."

"No, I know that," she laments, disappointed by my answer. Still, she remains undaunted, staring down at her hooves while brainstorming her next step.

That doesn't take too long – her head snaps back up to gaze into my eyes. "Have him pick up the parts. He said this was a birthday present – I'm sure he would rather be sure to have them on hand ahead of time rather than wait for them to go through the system. And it would give me a chance to look at Johnson – see if I can recognize him."

"And if he recognizes you?"

"I never said I'd be out in the open. I hid from you for months on end – I can do it for a ten to fifteen-minute visit to gauge his appearance."

I want to help Midnight any way I can – but I don't want to see her hurt. Where exactly do I draw the line here? Where's the overlap in risk and reward?

"Let's suppose I'm game for this what are you going to do if you recognize him?" I shoot back, crossing my arms.

"Well... there's gotta be some way to get a feel for him. Making small talk, sort of leaning into his job... you're good with small talk."

"We're gonna get a gut feeling on him based on idle conversation."

"John, I'm not stupid. You know that," Midnight replies softly. "I can be impatient sometimes. But not when it comes to delicate situations. Unless I can... I'm not making an appearance unless I'm sure that he's not a threat. But I need this – I don't want to live perpetually kicking myself for passing up this chance if he's the real deal. It's just a matter of risk management and ultimately... yeah, I guess I need to rely on my instincts. But I have a good track record, don't you think?"

"What's that?"

Midnight raises a hoof to rest it on my arm. I look into her eyes again.

"If there was a single bigger risk in my life aside from escaping, it was meeting you. At the end of the day, I had to trust my gut that you had enough of a heart to help me. And I was right."

I... can't really argue that one. But I can't just roll over because of her heartfelt message or the smile she sports, either.

"Your gut was wrong about Teddy. Starla, too," I point out. "I'm not calling out your faults for fun here, but..."

"I was wrong about them – on the other side of the line. I didn't trust them," she reminds me. "If anything, that shows I'm not willing to take risks unless I'm absolutely sure."

I'm not going to win this argument, but I'm not ready to roll over on this, either. More than anything, I need some time to think. "Middie, if you want me to call him back, we need to be sure we have those parts," I sigh, coming up with the only way I can think of stalling. "If you're serious about this, go run a quick check out back – then we'll go from there."

It's unclear how she feels about my lack of decision here; her face reverts back to a calm and level expression as she nods her head. "Fair enough. I'll be back shortly," she states. With little fanfare, she drops to the floor and trots out the door, off for a solo part search.

Leaving me with some time to agonize over a decision on a situation I never thought could happen...