I hate being locked up.  They could've just asked me to wait; it's not like I could leave anyway, since they have Grizzle.  I daydream about busting out of the police station and stealing a cop car, making a mad dash for the Canadian border.

But, of course, I'm not going to do that, so I lean back in the chair and doze.  It's not a comfortable chair, and the world is getting sharp-edged again, twitchy.  I need to work on Ren's car, and I feel so goddamn lonely but I can't do anything else until it's done… I open my eyes and see Alison.  She's standing by the door, arms folded, and I can't read the look on her face.  I feel better that she's here, though, it's comforting having her in the room.  I close my eyes again.

I open them again, and the sun is up.  The door has opened, and there's another police officer there.  I realize suddenly that I haven't seen the same cop twice since I got here.  Behind the officer is a big man in a suit.  He looks like a giant lawyer, and chuckles when I tell him so.  "Well spotted.  Charles Saxen," he says, introducing himself. 

"Do I need a lawyer?"

"Not at all."

"It's a strange coincidence that you're here, then isn't it?" I say, slightly nastier than I intend.  I spent the night in a chair, I think I have an excuse.

"I'm Nikki's brother," he says, and then it all makes sense.  "The misunderstanding has been cleared up, and I apologize for the inconvenience."

"Nikki?"

"She's fine, as is her friend."

I have no reason not to believe him, and as callous as I feel dismissing the business, I've got shit to do, too.  "Good.  Can I go?"

He steps aside.  "Absolutely."  Charles shakes my hand. "It's nice to meet you, Ms. Crane."

"Please, call me Angel-tits," I tell him, and squeeze past.  Charles looks really confused, and doesn't follow.  Grizzle's keys are given back to me, along with my license and the change and pocketknife I stuffed into my pockets on the way out of the garage yester-evening. 

Finally, I get to talk to Andrew again.  After all, I am his ride. As soon as we're out of the station, I tell him, "I'm very late for an important date, and I need some important screws turned."  It's cold in the truck, with the back window busted out, and the sun's only just come up.

He looks at me sort of sideways.  "We should go to Liz and Nikki--" he tried.

I interrupt him.  "They're fine, and they'll be very busy for the next several hours anyway.  You'll only make things more complicated.  So come and help me.  I know you can, because you drive a Ford Lightning, and you seem to know that it's special." 

"How did you know?"

"Saw you pull into the parking lot, sillydilly.  And I have timing to set and some other little fiddly things, and I could very much use a second set of hands or two to catch me up.  I was planning to work on the car all night last night, you know."  I was planning to work on it alone so I could cry, too, but he doesn't need to know that.  Sentimentalism can take a back seat for the moment; the car is what's important now, or I'm going to lose my mind.

"What car?"

"The one I'm building for my dead fiancee," I say.  He seems intrigued enough to follow me back to the barn after we zip by the Kroger to fetch his truck. 

When I open the barn door and Andrew sees Ren's car, he seems to have an epiphany.  "You said you were building it for…oh, crap!  Lexi CRANE!" he gasps.

I smile at him.  After this there is no talking, just car work.  Andrew seems to understand instinctively that I don't want to answer questions, and he doesn't ask any.  I'm so grateful that I could throw him on the floor and screw him for that, though I don't seriously consider it.  There are about two hours' worth of little things to be done to make the car complete (it would've been four if I was by myself), and we do them all.  While he's double-checking electrical connections, I dig out my Anarchist's Cookbook and make a detonator and a few gallons of homebrew stuff designed to go bang and burn.  He doesn't notice.  All of the chores take until ten, and we finally fire the Crane-Packard up for the first time at ten-thirty.  It comes to life with a knee-shivering, ear-tickling roar from the fat exhaust pipes.  Andrew rolls his eyes in delight, as if listening to a symphony.  I do a little dance of glee, and he does one with me. 

After that I give him a white-knuckled, butt-clenched, gleeful giggle-punctuated ride around the block, because he's earned it.  "Now we're done, thank you," I tell him. 

"Do you want to get breakfast or something?"

"Another time, I promise.  I have to go and deliver this.  You should go and see how Liz and Nikki are.  Thank you for helping me."

"Deliver it?"  Andrew asks, pausing in the door of his truck.

"Can the chatter," I tell him.  "This is the part you're not allowed to watch, unless it's televised.  Judy Garland's dead and the poppies are out of season anyhow.  It's all WWF and lemon meringue zoot suits from here on out, which might seem like a downhill course but it's kind of hard to beat a good suplex off the top rope, to be honest.  I love Detroit, I love the highways, and I love the big phallic buildings downtown.  They have a giant bronze fist, you know.  How can you not love a city with a giant bronze fist?  I want one.  It's a damn sight cooler than anything you might find in New York City, not counting the Port Authority of course, a building the size of Romulus that's full of buses is pretty hard to beat.  It's been a delightful pleasure meeting you, Andrew Ford."  I shake his hand.  He looks like he's trying not to have an aneurysm, following me.  That's fine.  I want him confused.  I resist the urge to ruffle his moppy hair.  "See you on the news," I tell him, and wave as he pulls out of the driveway.