"Oh man, look at this thing!" Veser walked to the front of the car.

"Indeed. We were quite fortunate to walk away unharmed," Ples pulled at the door handle, which gave far too easily, leaving Ples unsteady on his feet for a moment as the momentum from the unnecessary strength in the tug threw him back. He regained his footing easily, and pretended not to see the way Veser started, as if he were mere seconds away from darting around the car to catch him before he fell.

He was touched, in a way, but simultaneously frustrated. He was not, as Veser has seemingly taken to think, an invalid. Adjusting his glasses-no longer the right prescription, making things slightly fuzzier than he was used to, but it was better than nothing at all-he set to work separating anything of personal value from the debris that filled the cab, placing everything in the boxes placed carefully on the roof of the car.

Veser watched him through the windshield, around the spidered cracks above twisted metal, before turning his attention to the other cars around the yard.

The one next to them was a charred and gutted mess. Veser's imagination wandered, before looking to the car beyond it, then the next, until he finally found the smashed up hull of the truck that had smashed into them. The wheel under the driver's side looked like it was gone, but had actually folded up beneath it. The windshield was completely gone, and there was definite damage to the lower part of the front end, where the collision had occurred. It would never drive again.

Good, Veser thought, turning back to Ples, who was riffling through the glove compartment.

He could see Ples through the windshield as the paramedics checked him for injuries, waiting to see if he was fit for transport, lest they cause him additional damage

The other driver leaned against the side of his truck, shaking as he raised a cigarette to his mouth as he watched his companions talk to the police one after another. One came to him then, and he hesitantly looked from Veser to the paramedics surrounding the car.

"Did I hurt anyone?" The man asked, wide-eyed.

Veser wanted to scream, standing there in the dark, and run away from the scene, as if that could make it all stop, like it made his father's beatings stop for the moment, but was frozen in place as a stretcher was brought over and Ples' still unmoving form was set on top of it, and wasn't so sure his father was the person he hated most in this moment.

Veser jerked open the back door, dragging his bags from the seat, throwing them onto the roof of the car before crawling in and searching for anything that looked vaguely important. Receipts and other papers were shoved into the box he dragged in with him, followed by loose change and the odd assortment of pens that had accumulated on the man's floor. From between the seats, he watched as Ples flipped through the owner's manual and sighed.

"I had liked this car," he whispered, snapping the glove compartment closed.

"Sorry."

Ples pinched the bridge of his nose. "It is not your fault, Veser now stop apologizing."

"Sorry."

Veser grinned at Ples' sigh, and felt between the cushions for anything that might've fallen in. It, like underneath the seat, was clean. Satisfied that there was nothing left but the empty take-out bag residing on the floor, Veser stood up, dragging the box with him as he did. Ples continued to search for a moment, before following suit.

"I suppose I will have to get a new one, after the insurance clears," Ples says idly.

Veser, who no longer enjoys the thought of Ples behind the wheel of anything, merely makes a sound in affirmation, before shouldering his bags and picking the boxes up best he could, leaving the lightest one for Ples.

"Really, Veser, I can…"

"No heavy lifting."

"They're boxes, Veser, with a total accumulated weight of no more than five pounds. I daresay I can handle the strain."

"I left you one. Now come on, Lamont's waiting."

Ples huffed. "You look like a pack mule."

"That's cause I'm big and strong cause I eat my Wheaties."

"You do no such thing," Ples stated, "I know from personal experience."

"Well, I would if there was nothing else to eat."

"Is that so? Perhaps I should neglect the shopping for the following week, then. It would certainly save my kitchen the catastrophes that will befall it as I am apparently too invalid to manage any of the cooking."

"I didn't mean to set that omelet on fire." Veser said defensively.

"No," Ples sighed, "but my cupboards will likely never recover nonetheless."

"I've gotten better."

"Yes, the toast was magnificent this morning," Ples teased.

"What can I say? I'm a culinary genius." Opening the trunk of Lamont's car with his surprisingly free hand, Veser loaded the boxes and bags in before slamming it closed. Lamont emerged moments later, still engaged in conversation with the owner of the junkyard. Hands were shaken, then the three men piled into the cramped vehicle and made their way back to the place Veser and Ples called home.