It's Definitely Not All Mary Poppins

Fat Birds! (1)

He trembled as he got out from the older woman's car. The sight of the house on Cherry Street was the least of his concerns. He could've cared less that the scaffolding around the kitchen wing had grown to encompass the living room. His hands shook. His eyes glimmered.

The children ran inside.

He didn't care.

Mrs. Weiss went inside.

Lloyd sat, one of his left wheels jammed under his body. His windshield was gone. The side windows were gone or smashed, cracks spreading like thick spiderwebs. The passenger door was gone. His body was like Matthew's – covered in bumps and bruises, though Lloyd was dented and bent out of shape. The roof sagged against the crumpled side. His front bumper, once a sly, cooked smile, hung face-down on the back of the flatbed, resulting in a heartbreaking blank stare; the license plate, "L104174", sat beside it. His headlights stared off into the trees, the glass and lights cracked and smashed. The headliner hung from the roof like a battle-worn flag after the enemy's defeat. Shattered glass littered the floor. He smelled like oil and gasoline.

Matthew stepped closer, laying his arms on the flatbed truck, his eyes fixed. "Lloyd..." he whispered, placing a gentle hand on the barely-fixed front fender. "I'm so sorry, bud."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Robinson." Mr. Yang buttoned his blazer and smoothed it against his torso. "How are you feeling?"

He said nothing. His hand dropped from Lloyd's front. Matthew swallowed back a lump in his throat, yet his eyes glimmered.

The older man took in a breath. "Yes..." He cleared his throat. "Well, firstly, let me assure you that you were, in fact, on paid leave during your absence. Your job security has not been lost."

Matthew wiped his eyes. "...th...thank you...sir." He patted the fender again before turning to his employer. "I...I-I said...my goodbyes, sir." He didn't. Matthew needed more time, but not even all the time in the world would be enough. 'Rip off the bandaid now,' he thought, sniffing, slouching to wipe his eyes again.

Tapping his slippered feet against the graveled drive, the fabric still decorated with stickers and markers, Mr. Yang let out a sigh, twiddling with his thumbs. "...secondly, if you'll allow me, I'll take up the costs of repairing your car."

Gray eyes met brown ones. "Wh..." Matthew turned his gaze to Lloyd before moving back to Yang. "...why?"

He swallowed. "I won't lie and say I'd sleep easier knowing the car was gone, but Lilliana and Elliot lobbied, quite heavily, for it." He glanced at the car, sighing, a frown crossing his face. "Elliot has...already performed a series of, resurrection spells on it, as well." Yang tapped the rear fender.

Carved through Lloyd's blue paint were a slew of symbols, some Matthew recognized as Egyptian, some as Norse. The carved symbols spread over the fender onto the engine lid.

Matthew stepped back. "N-no," he whispered. "I-I need to do it."

"Mr. Robinson, I don't believe you don't have the funds – "

"I need to do it!" he said, voice a little louder.

"Mr. Robinson – "

"What happened to 'not coddling them'?"

Mr. Yang crossed his arms, glaring.

Matthew turned away. He bit the inside of his cheek. "Sor – "

"What an interesting situation," he noted, raising his hand to wipe his brow. A smirk spread across his lips. "It's not every day you're this hypocritical."

He groaned.

"Yes, I don't believe in coddling the children. However," Mr. Yang explained, "even you should be able to recognize that this decision isn't my coddling them. It doesn't benefit them significantly, like asking for a toy or a later bedtime. It's a request principally grounded with someone else in mind." He folded his hands behind his back. "I told you, Mr. Robinson, my work is with people." He sighed. "I don't see any reason to not fulfill their request. Unless you'd like to supply one?"

Matthew stepped back. He twisted his fingers in his hand. "Sir, I...appreciate the thought, but..." He clenched his jaw. "...I, can't accept."

"Why?"

He didn't answer. Saying, "Because I'm supposed to be the one to do it" felt pathetic. It wasn't an answer. It was a roadblock.