Soft Top

The desert was going to win. It was only a matter of time. Just me, an empty Coke bottle, and miles of sun-baked sand stretching into the distance. What a hell of a way to go. At least I had my hat.

I plodded along. Everything felt fine, for now. My dead car was just a dot behind me, so I had walked pretty far, but there was no way I was getting out. The best thing I could do was to find somewhere to shelter that wasn’t a threadbare ’84 convertible. It seemed like there was a shack or something in the distance, and I had been heading there for a few hours now.

I had known as soon as the engine died that there wouldn’t be any other drivers headed this way for weeks. Not in the middle of summer like this, and not on such a bad stretch of road. But there was the chance that some old building would give me respite from the sun. If only I had ponied up for a roof to my car… or, for that matter, a better car to begin with. Then again, I hadn’t planned the drive.

By the time I got to the shack, my skin was starting to feel the midday sun. I kicked in the door. It was clear someone had set this up as a rest stop, and it was kitted out with everything I could need. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, and I could feel the weight of my dread lift from me.

Sixty years later, I was back, only this time in a casket. Per my request, the tombstone by the shack that saved my life read: “Here’s to second chances.”