Winslow Schott sat on a folding chair outside his workshop, a half-cold mug of coffee resting on a pstic crate beside him. His mutt, Ace, y curled nearby in a patch of sun, twitching in his sleep like he was chasing something.
The fan in the shop window whirred, stirring up hot, dusty air. Out in the yard, the same mountains of scrap and busted machines stood where they always had—rusting in silence, waiting for someone who might need a part or two. Lately, that someone didn't come around much.
Winslow had spent most of his life out here. His father had run the pce before him, and his grandfather before that. A family of junk men. Schott & Sons Salvage.
People called him **Toyman**, though not for any real reason. Just a nickname that stuck. "Still pying with your toys, Toyman?" they'd say when they caught him tinkering with old appliances or welding together junk into something half-useful. He didn't care. He liked building things. It was better than drinking, better than rotting away.
The sound of a car door smming broke the afternoon stillness.
Ace perked up with a short bark.
Winslow stood slowly, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his back pocket, and walked toward the front gate.
A yellow cab sat out front, dust kicking off its tires. Out stepped a tall man in a long dark coat and a girl—a teenager, maybe fifteen, sharp-eyed and quiet.
Not the usual kind of customers.
Winslow met them halfway.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
The man nodded. "Looking to buy."
Winslow gave a one-shoulder shrug. "Well, you're in the right pce if rust's what you're after. Name's Winslow Schott." He stuck out a calloused hand.
The man shook it. "Warren."
The girl didn't say a word, just looked around the yard like she was already casing the pce.
Warren pointed past a few dead pickups and a stack of washing machines. "That old bus—is it yours?"
Winslow turned to follow his gaze. A busted-up Trailways sat snted in the weeds, paint peeling, windows clouded with grime.
"Yeah," Winslow said. "Been sitting there damn near fifteen years. Doesn't run. Tires are dry-rotted. Floor's probably half caved in. Mice love it, though."
The girl walked over to it, trailing her fingers along the metal.
Winslow followed them both, arms crossed.
"I'll sell it," he said, "but you're not driving it out of here. Best use for it would be gutting it for scrap or maybe turning it into a shed. If you're trying to fix it up... well, good luck."
"How much?" Warren asked.
Winslow thought it over. "Twelve hundred."
The girl gnced back at him. "That's too low."
Winslow frowned. "I ain't trying to scam anybody."
"I know," she said. "But you're still asking too little."
Warren didn't argue. He pulled out an envelope and handed it over without a word.
Winslow opened it. A stack of bills. Double what he'd asked for.
He looked up. "You sure?"
Warren nodded.
"Well... can't say no to that."
"You want me to arrange a tow?" Winslow asked.
Warren shook his head. "Don't worry about it. It'll be gone by morning."
That gave Winslow pause. He looked out at the bus again. It hadn't moved in over a decade.
But money was money. He nodded. "All right then."
They turned and walked back to the cab. **Quiet types. The kind who didn't stay long..**
Winslow watched them drive off.
Ace wandered up, tail swishing.
"Strange pair," he muttered, patting the dog's head. "But as long as the cash is good..."
He gave the bus one more gnce, then headed inside for the night.
---
Winslow woke in his recliner, the faint glow of the TV still flickering in the corner. Some te-night show was pying—ugh track and all—but the sound was turned down low.
The dinner tray sat empty on the table. His beer was half-warm.
A sharp bark from Ace outside made him sit up.
He grabbed the fshlight and stepped out the door, the shotgun resting in the doorway just in case.
The night air was still, but something felt off. He scanned the lot, light bouncing off metal and weeds.
Then he stopped.
**The bus was gone.**
No tire tracks. No drag marks. No engine sounds. Just the space where it had been—and now, nothing.
He stared at the empty spot for a long moment.
Ace sniffed the area, then sat down with a soft huff.
Winslow scratched his jaw and shrugged.
"Well," he muttered, turning back toward the shop, "he *did* say it'd be gone by morning."
And with that, he went back inside.
