Chevrolet Fey

Uncle Eli left nothing behind except his truck. He used to talk like it was a gift from God, but he never even drove it, just let it rust in his garage.

After he died, I wanted to get rid of it, but it wouldn’t start. I checked the engine.

And froze.

A colony of pixies, fat on motor oil and wiper fluid, flicked their pixelated wings and stared anxiously up at me.

I gently lowered the hood.

It took a while, but I eventually converted the garage into a terrarium, so Uncle Eli’s little friends had room to fly.