Copyright © 2013 C.L. Mannarino
All rights reserved.
“Impounded, dad?” Shay asked, driving them up to the lot.
“It’s not my fault,” he growled.
She laughed, ignoring the glare he gave her from the passenger’s seat. “Oh, yes. Because all cars just happen to drive at speeds reserved for race tracks. And they all belch black smoke right before you’ve gotten where you needed to go.”
“It’s still—a perfectly—good—car,” he said through clenched teeth.
“That’s called denial.”
Prompt: (see photo) from writeworld