Hunter called to Dom from the backseat. They turned down a stretch of road lined with cyclone fences and dotted with businesses: a concrete supplier, a cabinet factory, a transmission repair shop. “Here we go,” she said, pointing at a dirt driveway. The beat-up sign out front read DELL’S AUTO WRECKING AND SCRAP METAL. “I’ll go ask them for something so they don’t get suspicious,” Mandy said, heading for the office. It had taken some cajoling from Dom to get her to come. That she would miss out on retrieving a fortune in spheres if she didn’t tag along probably helped as well. “What are you going to ask them for?” Dom asked. “I don’t know. A carburetor for a 1994 Chrysler LeBaron.” Dom pointed at her. “Nice car. Convertible or hardtop?” “What do you think?” she called over her shoulder. Hunter led them through rows of junk vehicles at a jog, to the back of the football-field-sized space. She stopped by the back fence, in front of a school bus that was more rust brown than yellow, with no back wheels.
