Page 2 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

The concrete is cold through the back of my t-shirt as I shimmy under the car. There's barely enough room, but I make it work. Oil has dripped here, making dark spots on the cardboard James laid down. It stinks like metal and rubber and it makes my nose itch.

"See anything wrong with it?" James calls out.

I look at the oil pan, trying to remember what he said to check for. There's some rust maybe? Or is that normal? I want to give him the right answer so badly I'm nervous.

"I think there's a little rust on one side?" I call back.

"Good eye. Come on out and we'll take care of it."

Good eye?

He said I did good!

I push myself out quick as I can, already thinking about what he'll teach me next. Maybe how to change the oil? Or rotate the tires?

I'm strong. I could help him every weekend, if he wants me to.

I smile so big it hurts as I look up at James from the garage floor, swiping at the motor oil on my face with the back of my hand.

He has one of those big brown bottles by the neck, just like he holds a beer bottle, staring down at me with flat eyes.

My skin prickles.

Sometimes he hits me when his eyes look like that.

"Will that help with the rust?" I ask, confused. "I thought you said not to touch⁠—"

The world explodes into white.

I don't understand what's happening, can't process what just splashed across my face, why it hurts so bad, I didn't think anything could hurt so bad, why the world has turned into fire fire FIRE⁠—

My hands fly up, clawing, and I'm screaming but the screams are all wrong because the burning is in my mouth now, my throat, my chest⁠—

"Hello? 911? This is James Marsh. There's been a terrible accident. My stepson… he was helping me in the garage and knocked over industrial cleaner. Oh god, his face… please hurry!"

I try to scream "MOM," even "DAD," but my throat doesn't work anymore. Everything spins, the garage ceiling with its single bulb swinging back and forth.

Then…

White ceiling tiles.

Machines that won't stop beeping.

Mom screaming somewhere far away. "That's not my son! What happened to my baby? WHAT IS THAT THING?!"

Time skips.

Light.

Dark.

Light.

Dark.

In and out.

My teeth feel wrong.