Summer - 1985 Duct taping the garden hose to the exhaust of his car reminded him of the days when he and his best friend would collect trash and then try to build stuff out of it. The days of Erector Sets, Lincoln Logs and cardboard boxes. The satisfaction of having built something, of bringing something into existence. He unwound the green hose. The smell of the new hose reminded him of summer days. Spraying his sisters and friends and drinking water from the hose rather than take precious time away from play. That terrible rubber taste. He pulled it around to the driver's seat window, opened the door, lowered the window, set the hose in the window and shut the metal end of the hose in it. He sealed the gap with more gray tape. He looked at the signs. The ones propped on their sides against the garage wall. The ones that said Welcome Home I Missed You. The ones that had lined the driveway on the day his family was supposed to return. Return after she figured everything out, but they didn't return and he didn't know form where. He started the car. The old engine roared to life and exhaust sputtered. He got in his metal coffin and pulled the door shut. He watched the exhaust spill in and fall downward. He coughed and quickly exited the passenger side, shut the door and scrambled out of the garage. From the garage window he watched the car fill with exhaust. That's exactly how I feel he thought and leaned his head against the window frame. He watched the car fill as the sun set. It reminded him of watching fireworks when he was a kid, but he didn't know why.