One day, Juan’s car ignored the key and the ignition. Inside the compartment, Juan examined nothing he recognized aside from the battery and a reservoir filled with blue liquid. He chewed at the inside of his cheek then closed the hood.
The children were playing in the yard. The youngest, Juan’s girl, kicked a ball into a net. The boy screwed at something under a skateboard.
Juan sat down on the steps to the porch and watched the children. His girl twirled with precision, caught the ball at an exact place on her foot, and scored. His boy flipped the skateboard over, slipped the screwdriver into his back pocket, hopped on and shot down the sidewalk.
Meanwhile, the car sat in the driveway, like the quiet that follows lightning strike.
