Agnes’s house was not the little country cottage I had anticipated. It wasn’t in the low ranch style I had seen in town either. It was ornate without being opulent. There was a wraparound porch, wide enough for rocking chairs, and there were tons of windows with open green shutters against white fish-scale siding. In front of a heavy door was a worn welcome mat.
The entryway was hardwood that ran straight into the kitchen, where Agnes was moving about. To the right was a sitting room, carpeted with a thick shag. Agnes had a piano, a love seat, and a couch, neatly arranged. Pictures and needlepoints hung on the walls. Maybe she’d inherited them from family members and now displayed them proudly. I saw a woodburning stove and an empty box beside it.
Agnes was opening cupboards and pulling stuff out—teas and other assortments. She must have seen us driving up and gotten right to playing hostess.
“Mr. Sawyer,” she said, “would you be so kind as to fetch some wood for the stove?”
I nodded. “Of course, ma’am.”
Mary was pulling off her shoes. “Thanks, Sawyer. You’ll need a coat. There’s one in the closet that might fit. We’ll talk in a bit?”
I nodded, found the only coat that was not small and feminine, and let myself out, again wondering who in heaven had set the switch to snow and forgotten about it. But the coat was a luxurious item, leather with furry lining and a big collar. It looked like an old-fashioned bomber jacket. It fit fairly well, except across the shoulders, and the sleeves were too short.
I wondered whose it was.
Stepping carefully off the porch, I trudged around to the back of the house, where I rightly assumed a shed would be. Pressed up against the side of the shed was an adequate stack of wood. The shed door was pretty rusted or frozen and required a number of pushes and pulls before granting me entry. I found a string to a weak yellow bulb that illuminated the cramped, dusty space, but only just.
The shed was full of things I like, and I like a lot of things. In fact, I am pretty sure most people can find more things they like than things they don’t. And I like sheds, mostly because they are full of tools, and tools mean building. And creativity, not cleanliness, is next to godliness.
But being clean can help.
After an appropriate amount of rummaging through scrap lumber, near-empty paint cans, and boxes of nails, I found a double-bit axe. If I had known I would be playing Paul Bunyan, I would have grabbed the pilfered axe out of my car. But the double-bit worked just fine. The wood split easily, and soon I was in a rhythm: set a piece on the block, swing, chop, set again. Though, with each shunk of the axe I felt a twinge in my skull. I became aware of small pains from the crash that I hadn’t noticed before. Muscles were strained, stiffened, and sore.
But it wasn’t the worst I’d had.
I was getting a nice stack by the time I realized I hadn’t asked exactly how much Agnes needed. I figured what I had cut would be enough. And if it wasn’t, I could always get more, but there was no way of putting together what I had already split. I didn’t want to make too much kindling and leave too few bigger chunks. It’s like cutting hair—better not to take too much too fast.
I didn’t want to deplete her supply that was no doubt calculated to last the whole rest of the winter.
I stopped and listened. My breath fogged before my eyes. While working, I had forgotten the weather. It had my attention now. The searching fingers of cold found me, even with the warm coat. The air tasted sharp, biting the back of my throat with each intake.
It was still snowing.
The silence was heavy. Incredibly so. Not oppressive, just reassuring in a firm, stern way. It felt wrong to break it with any more noise beyond the rhythmic percussion of the axe and the beat of my steps, so I just breathed and listened, churning the many happenings of the past day over in my mind, thinking about how I was going to break the bad news about Amy.
Silence and bad news: two tough things to break.
I imagined Agnes and Mary fixing tea and maybe some cookies, the kind of comforting busy work that staves off impending doom and gloom.
I turned my gaze back to the house; lights were on, and it looked like an island in a sea of snow.
It is easy to get lost in thought. I certainly was.
Until something brought me crashing back to reality.
I am not a believer of mysticism. I do not think people have a sixth sense, third eye, second sight, or whatever. I am sure the stars don’t dictate the lives of earthlings.
But I do know that if you train yourself to be aware, really aware, of yourself and your surroundings, then you can pick up on certain things. For example, you can walk into a house and know whether or not it’s occupied simply by the absence or presence of almost-imperceptible human vibrations. Or you can go to bed with a problem in mind and wake up with the answer. Or feel eyes on the back of your head. Your primordial brain kicks in, and the hairs up on the nape of your neck stand up.
That’s what happened to me right then.
I was facing the rear of the house and could see the warm light reaching out of the many windows. I saw Mary’s Jeep in the driveway and the unpaved road wandering off into the trees. I knew the church was behind me, and I’ve never been afraid of churches. But there was a thick stand of evergreens between me and the place of worship.
I turned in what I hoped was a casual, unhurried manner, like I was just a guy admiring his surroundings, but there was nothing I could make out between the low branches.
I have been all over the world, for one reason or another, in some pretty rough places with some pretty tough customers. But at least, in those places, I had always been face-to-face with my assailants, like that would-be mugger in Peru.
I was sure I was looking right back at whoever was looking
at me.
The ancient inclination to fear what I couldn’t see, the realization that something was out there, was a feeling I had trained myself to suppress. Lean forward instead of back. Face the fear. Fight or flight?
I did neither. Yet.
I had an axe, which was useless at this range. But I reasoned if the guy was staring at me down the barrel of a rifle, he would have taken a shot by now. He might have a handgun, but handguns at that distance would be about as ineffectual as my axe.
I shouldered the axe and took a step forward. Fight, not flight.
Honestly I must have looked a little silly, trying to lift my legs above the snow, shuffling like an emperor penguin. But I wanted to make the first move, shake him up a bit. That was one thing I learned from years of hard-won fistfights and boxing matches: if something hurts you, if something scares you, don’t back up. Go toward it.
Like in my first-ever boxing match. My opponent busted my nose in the opening round. A broken nose is usually enough to take the starch out of anyone. It hurts, and it makes your eyes water so badly you can’t see straight. The nose is an easy target and thus the subject of repeated punishment. But I walked him down and knocked him out.
Sometimes you have to go straight at the danger—go forward, not back.
Which I did. And was brought to the immediate conclusion that I had been wrong in my assessment. A thunderous crack split the silent night in half.
I thought I’d been shot.
I fell back in a sitting position, deep into the snow, dropping the axe, and rolled over toward the shed and away from the house. The wood might stop a bullet, but the windows wouldn’t. I didn’t want to think about Agnes or Mary getting hurt.
I had never been shot at before, actually shot at. I had seen both ends of a gun, very recently, in fact. But they had always gone unfired. I scrambled up, breathless and covered in snow, pressed up against the far side of the shed.
I had few options. Very few. Making a run for the house was not one of them. That would present a unified target of Agnes, Mary, and me. I couldn’t stay where I was because all the shooter had to do was stroll up out of the forest and pick me off at his leisure.
So I did something stupid, which ended up being my initial plan all over again, just in fast motion. I yelled and whooped, taking off at a staggering, lumbering run, pumping my knees high, right toward where I thought he’d be. A hundred yards is really a very short distance when you are running, even through heavy snow. But before I was halfway to the trees, I saw the limbs move and heard shuffling and scrambling. There were two people, not one. They were retreating. I kept going, a little slower.
Pushing against the fragrant pines, I was too late to see them. They were gone. They must have had a car waiting.
Then I saw that I had been more wrong than I thought. Or, rather, I heard I was wrong. For all my love of trees and all the time I’ve spent among them on trails in Washington, I had never seen one break from winter weather. The crack, crash I had taken to be a gunshot was a branch, overladen with snow, that had snapped off one of the trees in the copse. Nature’s powdered sugar was out to get me in more ways than one. If it couldn’t freeze me, it would scare me to death.
The noise had been surprising, especially on top of being watched by persons unknown whom I knew had ill-intent. But, upon reflection, there was a stark contrast between the branch snap and the sound of a gunshot. Even among firearms sound varies, but with all, there is a distinctive smack or bang, and that usually echoes and reverberates more than nature noises. Sometimes people mistake the backfire of an engine or fireworks for a gunshot, but even those are different.
I came back toward the house, kicking myself a little. If I hadn’t fallen, I might have caught them. But whoever they were, they seemed uncommitted to action, for now. I was sure they wouldn’t try anything again anytime soon.
The lights looked inviting, and a fire sounded good.
After some digging, I found the axe, dried it off on my shirt, and sunk it into a log in the shed to keep its edge. Then, with an armful of wood, I went back to the house.
Mary moved to help me as I balanced the wood in one hand and worked the front door open with the other.
“You must be freezing.”
I was, but I wouldn’t admit it. “I’m good.”
“I saw you from the window. What were you doing at the
tree line?”
I saw Agnes arranging the table and didn’t want to worry her.
“Later,” I said in an undertone.
I stomped snow from my boots and got busy building a fire. I guess that’s another thing Boy Scouts had taught me, or at least given me the chance to practice, in addition to just being prepared. But really I attribute any worthwhile life lesson solely to my father. Once the flames caught I closed the slit door to the stove and arranged the rest of the wood.
Agnes invited me to wash up. I found the bathroom down the short hallway, past a few more portraits.
My hands were still a little numb, so I ran cool water over them until the feeling came back. I splashed my face and combed my hair with wet fingers.
I looked in the mirror and sighed. That was about as good as it was going to get; it might or might not have been good enough for Mary, not that romance fit high on my list of priorities at the moment, if I had a list. Which I didn’t.
The first thing on it would have been to find my car. Check. Next thing, food. Helping find Amy was paramount. And finding the guy who had whacked me on the head was right there near the top, too, not so much for myself—I can let things go. Usually. Turn the other cheek and all that. Though it certainly was not my favorite feature of Christianity.
But I don’t like evildoers getting away with doing evil. I hadn’t asked to end up in the middle of a murder and possible missing-person case, but here I was. And even though Strawn had pushed me to stay well enough away, I couldn’t let Agnes and Mary worry themselves about Amy all alone.
People excuse themselves from helping others with all kinds of flimsy rationalizations—it’s not my business, not my problem, someone else will handle it—and, of course, the buck keeps getting passed. But I believe anybody’s problem is everybody’s problem, so it might as well be me who helps out.
There was a knock at the door.
“Sawyer? Are you all right?”
I opened up. Mary was standing there, arms crossed, like she was cold. Or uncomfortable. The self-assurance and supreme confidence had faded. She was sharing the strain and sadness and the worry about Amy.
She still looked great. She had changed into a pair of sweatpants and an oversized shapeless sweater that somehow accentuated her figure. The sleeves went all the way down to her fingertips, and the hem ended halfway between her waist and her knees.
“Sorry. Just thinking,” I said.
She gave me a halfhearted smile. “I thought maybe you had fallen in love with your own reflection.”
“Not yet. Not ever. I’m no Narcissus.”
We walked single-file back to the kitchen. With a certain air of decorum incident to gracious hosts, Agnes motioned for us to be seated.
Agnes served cocoa for me, and she and Mary dabbed their bags of tea in and out of their little ceramic teacups, which were exquisitely decorated in a princess pattern of pastel-colored flowers and swirls. They looked too fancy for me. My finger barely fit through the handle. The cocoa was good though—better even than at the café. That was an upward trend I could get used to: first Strawn’s generic cup, then the Oak Table’s, and now Agnes’s
home brew.
We didn’t say anything for a long while. Just blew steam and sipped and sat.
I didn’t hear any more branches break. I just looked at the dregs of my cocoa. They didn’t tell me anything, like people think tea leaves tell fortunes.
“We weren’t close.”
I looked up at Agnes. Waited for more. She continued. “By the time my sister died, I realized we hadn’t spoken in a year anyway, so nothing much changed, really. Sometimes I think she is still alive, just not talking to me.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Twenty-five years ago my sister, Arlene, ran away; I was still in high school. But I think ran away is a bit misleading. It was more like a benign kidnapping. You know how it is when they think they’re in love. She wound up in Washington state. After a while she became pregnant, and at thirty-eight weeks she was . . . bludgeoned . . .”
Mary covered her mouth and looked away. I didn’t think she had the stomach for any kind of violence or tragedy, which spoke of the greatness of her soul.
It is not a good thing to be desensitized to gruesomeness.
“We didn’t even know she was expecting. She lived just long enough for them to save the baby, baby Amy.”
“Was the killer Amy’s father?” I asked.
“That is what everyone figured. But they never found him. Arlene never spoke of him before she left; we never got phone calls or letters. But eventually the police reasoned it was a stranger; there were plenty of no-accounts rolling through Seattle back then.”
Still are, I thought.
“But you thought otherwise?” I asked.
“I know otherwise. It was Amy’s father.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Well, isn’t it always? They never found him. He never surfaced. I brought Amy back here and raised her. When Strawn became the chief of police, I asked him for help, you know, to keep the case open or something. I thought having an ally on the inside might help. But he never seemed to follow through on it. Nothing ever seemed to happen. Now Amy is running the risk of ending up like her mom. I don’t want her to leave Cluff.”
“Agnes, I believe families can be together forever. Every family has issues, but over time, things tend to work out. I’ll do what I can to help.”
Agnes smiled sadly, reaching out to touch my hand. “Keep the fire going, will you? I’m tired. It has been a long day. I’m going
to bed.”
She started to clear the saucers and cups. I stood up. “Let me.”
“There’s no dishwasher, I’m afraid.”
“No problem. I prefer doing dishes by hand.” There is something soothing about washing dishes manually, seeing the immediate fruits of your labors. Something starts dirty and ends up clean.
“I should put you to work in the restaurant.”
“I’d do it for free just to eat there.” I smiled a little, hoping to cheer her up.
It didn’t work. Maybe I had reminded her Amy was an AWOL employee on top of being her flesh and blood. She sighed, tried to smile, and sighed again. She was really trying. Emotions that are only mostly pent-up must be hard to handle, like opening a can of soda pop after shaking it in an industrial-grade paint mixer.
Agnes disappeared down the hallway. I heard a door close and some water run.
Mary joined me at the sink, and together we washed, rinsed, and dried.
“I appreciate you trying to help. I just don’t see how to break the news about Amy’s house,” she said.
“We’ll wait until we know more, but we won’t wait forever. It wouldn’t be right not to tell her.” I turned off the faucet.
Mary was handling the stress pretty admirably. She looked a little wan, but keeping Agnes afloat seemed to help ease the crushing weight of worry.
Sense of purpose is good that way.
Stepping away from the sink, she motioned me to follow.
“Let’s go downstairs. You can dry your clothes and shower if you want. It’ll warm you up. I’m tired, too, but you have to tell me what was happening outside.”
“Okay.”
I replaced the teacups and saucers on the shelves and added fuel to the stove. I tried to calculate the burn rate and hoped I’d brought in enough.
I moved to the entryway, checked outside the door, and then closed and locked it. I made sure the windows were locked too. Most small towns aren’t in the habit of securing households, but given the recent prowling and the lack of results by Cluff’s finest, I thought it prudent.
The staircase to the basement was short and the ceiling low. It was cozy, though, if a little colder than the upstairs.
Mary curled up on a leather sofa, with an Indian blanket, and turned on a movie about an orange fish. The television was normal-sized, not like the monstrosities some people spend fortunes on. She pointed behind her to a door. “Bathroom’s through there. Help yourself to anything you want. It’s all pretty girly though.”
“Works for me. Thanks.”
The bathroom was pretty girly, but not in a typical pink and bubbly, rainbow-unicorn sort of way. It had just the right amount of feminine charm in the form of fluffy white towels, seashell-shaped soaps, and more mirrors than a carnival funhouse. It was also spacious, with plenty of shelf room. There were all sorts of potions and lotions, coconut-scented concoctions that made miraculous and misleading claims: Natural-looking hair, Leaves skin feeling hydrated, and other nonsense.
The shower stall was next to a set of front-loading washing and drying machines. On top of the washing machine I found a less-deceitful detergent. It only promised to clean clothes, which was all it needed to do.
So I set my pocket junk out of the way and made sure my cash and passport weren’t wet from my rolling around in the snow. Then I stripped down and followed the instructions for a “quick wash,” which involved a lot of twisting and pulling of knobs. It rattled and hissed and made all kinds of inexplicable noises.
I didn’t want to be standing around waiting for the cycle to finish, so I found something useful to do. I still had my toothbrush from the inn. Mary had lots of different flavors of toothpaste. Different sizes, too: small travel-sized tubes and big eight-ounce containers. I picked the one that was fullest since I figured that was her least favorite, or at least the one she could spare the most of, and cleaned my teeth.
I showered with the water as hot as I could stand then brushed my teeth again. I switched my clothes to the dryer, checking the lint catcher per the instructions. It was clean and clear.
I figured I had some time until my clothes were dry, so I delved deeper into the assorted toiletries. I found a pack of disposable razors that weren’t pink next to a can of shaving cream labeled for men.
I imagined Mary as some sort of bearded woman, like in a circus. I would have still found her attractive. Probably. More likely the razors and cream were from a recent boyfriend. So I broke open the pack and shook the shaving-cream can vigorously, per instructions, and gave myself a much-needed razoring. I had already lost the mission habit of shaving daily, so I shaved twice, partly because I had missed some spots and partly to stick it to Mary’s ex.
It’s important to not only beat your enemies but also make sure they know they’ve lost. The ex might come back one day and ask for his stuff and would find it used, much to his chagrin.
Of course, I’d be long gone by then. Probably.
I let the flannel button-up tumble a little longer, along with my socks. Everything else was pretty much dry, so I put my pants and undershirt on.
When I came out Mary was simultaneously watching the movie and texting.
“Thank you,” I said.
“It was as much for me as you. You needed it.”
I said nothing.
Mary said, “Sorry. I’m kidding. Just trying to lighten the mood. Sit down.”
I sat.
She offered me a corner of the blanket and slid a little closer.
“So, about outside . . . ,” she said.
“Whoever it was, they weren’t coming to Christmas carol. There were two of them.”
“Carter and Rock?”
“Maybe, or maybe worse. It’s conceivable Strawn wanted them to make sure I am not meddling anymore, or they could still be sore about earlier.”
“You shouldn’t have picked on them.”
“They were picking on me. Well, Rock was, at least. French
isn’t bad.”
“Just be careful.”
“I will,” I lied.
“They said you were a missionary in Peru. What was it like?”
“Hot. Beautiful. It was a real culture shock. We get so comfort-able in our First World, and we forget we’re all the same people in the same basic condition, with the same needs. We magnify what little differences there are and set aside our two most important imperatives.”
“Which are?” she asked.
“To love God and our neighbor.”
“To love and be loved,” she said. “Sounds nice. Do you love people?”
“More than anything. In Peru I met people who mattered so much in the moment, and then the moment changed, and it was on to the next. I would like nothing more than to see the faces of every person I served, but I’ll probably never see them again.”
“Until heaven?”
I smiled. “You got that right.”
She took my right hand, inspecting it as closely as a palm reader.
“That’s the first thing I noticed about you. Your hands. They are soft and gentle but clearly hardworking.”
I grinned. “Most people comment on my eyes or smile, if anything.”
“They’re nice too.”
“What did you tell me yesterday about flattery?”
She let go of my hand.
“It’s not flattery if it’s true.” She smiled.
“Thanks.”
We sat and watched the movie. Mary sent the occasional text message. She said she was reaching out to mutual acquaintances of Amy’s, seeing if anyone knew her whereabouts.
My stomach started to growl just as the movie hit a suspenseful juncture.
“You hungry?”
“Starving.” Which was hyperbole, of course.
We went upstairs, and while I stoked the fire, she made cold-cut sandwiches with spicy mustard and some greenery I took to be kale. Sometimes there’s no telling with vegetables.
Or people, for that matter; they’ll always surprise you.
We cleaned up quietly, and I went around checking the windows again.
It was snowing outside, but nothing was stirring like on the night before Christmas—not even a mouse, as far as I could tell.
On tiptoe we went back downstairs. The movie looked to be wrapping up nicely. Every fish seemed happy.
We were semiconsciously avoiding the serious stuff, which I was fine with because, like I had told the cops, Mary was the first girl I had talked to with any hint of romantic intentions. Mary was a very pretty and pleasant girl. She had looked good when we first met. She looked great up close.
I thought of something to talk about.
“Does it always snow this much in winter?”
She smiled, with a little air of superiority. “You want to talk about the weather? Isn’t that a little mundane and cliché?”
“On the contrary,” I said. “Nothing could be more pertinent. I mean, think about it: the weather impacts our lives more directly than most other things.”
She gave me a funny look. “You mean, like seasonal affective disorder?”
“What?” I asked.
“It’s a kind of depression because of the changes in the seasons.”
“That’s a weird thing to get depressed about,” I said, which was insensitive of me.
“It’s pretty common, actually. And as an acronym it spells SAD, which is interesting.”
I nodded. “I meant the weather brought us together. If it hadn’t been for the snow and the crash, we would never have met.”
She shook her head. “No, we met because we decided to talk to one another.”
She was right, of course.
She continued. “Okay, now that we’re done with the boring weather report, let’s go on to entertainment. What kind of music do you like?”
That is a common question, and all the time you hear vague answers: I like a little of everything, depends on my mood, anything but country. Which is all well and good, but specificity is helpful and demonstrates a degree of thought and consideration to inquiries like that. I pursed my lips, thinking. I don’t have a HiFi system or a CD collection or an mp3 player or whatever people buy nowadays. But I like music.
“I like guys like Jim Croce and Gordon Lightfoot. Of course, I’m a bit of a sucker for Adele and Dido.”
“I’ve never heard of Jim Crowfoot or Jordan whatever.”
I laughed. I thought it would be polite to ask her taste in diversion, and besides that, I actually wanted to know, but she had a far-off look in her eyes. Maybe she was just tired.
We sat there in comfortable silence.
I am no kind of mind reader—I don’t believe in that stuff—but I could see the wheels turning under her red hair. She was working around to the nitty-gritty. She looked at me pointedly, and I thought she was going to ask more questions. She didn’t.
“I wish you wouldn’t mess with Carter and Rock. You stole their car.”
SUV, and they left it running.
I sighed. I don’t like to argue. I am a peace-loving man. “Strawn didn’t seem to mind. They were gunning for me, so it seemed the best solution.”
Mary settled back against the arm of the couch, farther away from me. Not a good sign.
Her eyes drifted back to the movie; the credits were rolling. “We used to date, you know.”
“You and Strawn?”
She pulled an incredulous grimace. “No, gross. Me and Rock.”
“He is pretty handsome.” I had to say something.
“I guess I equated good-looking-ness with goodness. My mistake.”
“It happens to the best of us and the rest of us.” I patted her foot. “And you’re the best of us, Mary.”
“You barely know me.”
“I guess I must be coming to the same conclusion about good-looking-ness and goodness.”
She laughed, a little self-deprecatingly.
I thought more about what she had said about being duped by Rock. I wanted to ask what had happened, but I thought it might be too personal.
I couldn’t remember if there was a George Washington rule about such things. Probably. Ungentlemanly to inquire.
Moving so I was back against the opposite arm of the couch, I looked at her. “You can never be too sure about people; they’ll always surprise you, sometimes for good, sometimes for bad, but either way, at least you know.”
She pondered that. “So ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ sort of thing.”
Again I wanted to ask what was so bad about Rock, mostly out of concern for Mary, partly to vindicate my own dislike of him. But I didn’t.
“Carter’s not bad, like you said,” she continued. “He got teased a lot in school for being chubby. So did I, come to think of it.”
“I think you’re beautiful, Mary. Inside and out, and I think French will make a good cop.” I didn’t care about Carter French. Plenty of people get made fun of. I know I did. It’s no excuse for turning out mean. But I didn’t say that. Mary seemed a lot nicer than me.
Mary stretched her feet out, ignoring my compliment. I kept my legs bent; I would have been putting my toes in her face otherwise, which is inadvisable on a first date. Or any date. If this was a date at all.
“Did you grow up here?” I asked.
“Born and raised. My dad lives in Troy. He runs a small motor-repair shop. My mom died when I was sixteen.”
Too much sadness for such a small town.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Not your fault.” She smiled a little mischievously as she repeated my response to her sympathy from the night before.
She closed her eyes, resting her head on the armrest. Didn’t say anything more.
Both Mary and Agnes were awfully trusting of a big strange man who had just happened to wind up in town. I wasn’t complaining. And I wasn’t a threat. But plenty of guys are. I would have to explain to them that they shouldn’t make a habit out of housing transients.
I had a lot more questions than answers at that point and absolutely no idea where to begin. But I figured I could give myself a break, just long enough for some shut-eye. It wasn’t a very big couch, but it was plenty comfortable, and I can fall asleep anywhere. I stifled a yawn.
I groped around on the floor for the remote control. Most power buttons are on the upper left-hand corner. This one was. I turned the screen off and listened in the dark.
Listened to the night sounds of an old cozy house, listened to Mary’s slow and steady breathing. I thought of the innkeeper, getting paid for nothing.
I closed my eyes gratefully and gave one last listen for good measure.
And heard a car’s engine.
My car’s engine.