Jake’s family had one of them boneyards – ‘Mini-Mojave‘ they called it. But instead of tired, old planes theirs was full-to-bursting with rusting convertibles, roofless station wagons and so much more.
We’d spend whole summers down there. Whether behind the wheel of a Alaskan snow plough – shorn of its plough – or putting the gas down on a engineless, 100 seater Greyhound, it was our own special place.
It was in the Greyhound they found Jake – his brother said his heart hadn’t been strong enough. He always was a sick looking kid.
I can’t pass one of those yards now without remembering Jake’s smile.
He was my best friend.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.