Go check out the backyard and garage

Having finished a circuit of the interior of the house, you decide to head outside to see what there is to be seen. Stepping out the kitchen door and down the steps to the patio, you are greeted by the cold, crisp air and sounds of early spring: the first sprouts of new leaves on the naked tree in the backyard, the first blades of living grass poking up from the lawn’s brown mass. What is new is a little garden set off by the fence line and a small greenhouse, in front of it a sign that says “Dad’s Greenhouse, Keep Out!” There’s a little lean-to shed filled with hoes, spades, fertilizer, and a kneeling board but otherwise the garden is dormant, the ground too cold to plant anything yet.

On the other side of the yard, against the other neighbor’s fence there is a gravel driveway that runs from the back of the lot and up into the front and onto the street. There’s an old camping trailer that looks a little worse for wear and a car with a cover over it. It takes some jiggling of the door on the trailer but it yields with a pop. The inside smells of old stale air, and there is a layer of dust on everything inside it, from the sink to the fold out maps that are shoved down the back of the dining seats. Wandering to the back of the trailer there is a bed, an awkwardly cut down queen size affair to fit the shape of the trailer with musty sheets, but testing it it seems stable and comfortable enough.

Leaving the trailer and latching the door behind you, you squat down and lift up the car cover. Faded flame decals greet you. Lifting the cover higher it seems that it's some kind of project car, missing its hood and some other body panels, definitely some old Detroit City steel monster, that somebody must be restoring. You look back at the house, and figure that it must be Carrie. She’s now the sort of person who definitely would be working on a car in her off time. You replace the car cover and immediately catch a pair of green eyes staring at you from over the fence.

“Hey,” you state nonchalantly as you stand up. It’s a young girl with a cherub-like face framed by long ginger hair that has been curled and left loose.

“Hey,” she replies, “long time no see.”

“Yeah, uh―” You hear a door swing open and then shut behind the fence.

“John’s back!” the girl shouts over her shoulder. You hear a commotion, then see a set of fingers grip the fence, and watch it wobble a bit.

“John!” Cries the other redheaded girl as she pops her head over the fence. She looks a little older than the first, but not by much.

“Heyyy,” you reply, no idea who these girls are or why they know who you are.

“Well somebody’s excited to see her little Bo,” snickers the younger one.

“Ah shut up Wilma you brat,” the older one snipes and then smiles at you, “anyways, John, how was college?”

“Eh, went well enough, dropped out, back here now,” you shrug, “what was your name again?”

Wilma starts laughing, the whole fence wobbling with her cries. The other girl is still, mouth agape at you.

“Rebeka!” She snaps, “I’m Rebeka, you lying little snake, we literally spent our childhoods together, there’s no way you don’t remember!”

“Oh I do,” you lie, “but it was worth it to see the look on your face.”

“Fucking punk,” she snorts, “you’re lucky I have stuff to do or else I’d come over there and give you a piece of my mind.”

“Sure,” you smile.

“How long are you back here for?” Wilma asks.

“Good question,” you say, “I don’t really know, just came in last night so―”, you shrug, “maybe forever?” Rebeka gives out a surprised whistle.

“Ain’t that a horrible thought,” Wilma replies.

“Or at least until I get my feet under me again, you know?”

“No, for sure, I get it,” Rebeka says, “once I have enough I’m getting out of here too.”

“You’ve been saying that for like ten years now, you know” Wilma shoots back.

“Hey,” Rebeka shoots back, resting her elbow on the fence, “it takes a lot of money to move out and it's not like there’s that many jobs in this wretched little town, nevermind ones that pay well.”

“You’re just mad the muffler shop never called you back, aren’t you,” Wilma croons.

“Of course I’m mad!” Huffs Rebeka, the fence wobbling nervously, “$25 an hour starting with bonuses for overtime‽ That’s amazing! Nearly double what I’m making at the pizza shop!”

“You’ve never worked on a car in your life though,” yawns Wilma.

“Not true! I helped dad with changing the oil and a flat tire once!”

Wilma gives you a knowing look and you catch yourself chuckling.

“Anyway’s I’ll make sure to catch you two around,” you sigh and start walking off.

“Anytime John,” softly sighs Wilma.

“Don’t be a stranger,” snarks Rebeka and the two of them disappear over the fenceline.

You walk down the driveway and find the garage door unlocked. Inside it’s almost empty, though there is a telltale pair of oil pools where the trucks must have been parked during the winter time. A few buckets of paint are on a shelf by the wall, dust coated tools lie sprawled across the tool bench that is to one side, and a stack of bicycles lie maligned near the door to the house. Looking around, you figure that nobody will miss one if you decide to take one out for your own clandestine use and then return to inside the house.