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Reid Travis rolled half-asleep into the parking lot of his apartment complex in a dated Chevrolet pickup truck just before five AM. Roads, cars, and buildings warped around him in his drunken haze. In the morning, he would admonish himself for driving, but he hadn't been so far from home to begin with. Slowly, and with a certain inebriated finesse, he backed his truck into its designated parking spot, flung open the door with a creak and upchucked onto the pavement. An ensemble of beer and what little dinner he'd eaten the night prior splattered the concrete, and he stepped over it so as not to soil his python-hide cowboy boots.

He stumbled up the walk and climbed the stairs cautiously, hanging onto the railing for dear life for fear of falling in his lowly state. Just fitting the key in the lock became an arduous task itself, eliciting numerous, slurred swear words from the red heeler. Eventually, the door swung open and he entered the small, one bedroom apartment he called home.

Reid kicked off his boots and discarded his shirt and jeans into a pile that reeked of booze and cigarette smoke. That ten year-old mattress never looked so inviting. Aging springs groaned beneath the dog's weight as he slumped ungracefully onto them in his underwear, sighing audibly and resting his head on a pillow that was in about as bad of shape as the rest of the bed.

He too, had seen better days.

A shrieking eight o'clock alarm jerked the heeler from the throes of sleep, and when his heart rate returned to normal, he sighed and rubbed his aching head. He wasn't twenty-one years old anymore, but most nights, he forgot by the second round.

Wiry legs carried him into the kitchen, all the way to the refrigerator that contained the elixir of life he needed to function - ice cold beer. A can of Coors hissed, and Reid raised it to his lips, gulping it down in a matter of seconds. Crushed in the dog's grip, it joined the rest in the trash bag hanging from the pantry door, and the still-tipsy heeler returned to the bedroom where he would attempt his morning routine of masturbating, showering, brushing his teeth, and trying to appear more sober than he was.

He never fooled anyone.

Especially his nosy-but-well meaning downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Widener.

"Mista Reid, I saw you rollin' in last night all soused up! Now, you know better than that!"

"I know, Mrs. Widener." He answered politely on the way to his vehicle, forcing a smile for the old stoat.

"Now honey, you know all you gotta do is give us a call and we'll come pick you up. You keep that up and you're gonna get yourself hurt!"

"Thanks Mrs. Widener, I'll keep that in mind." Reid said. What he really meant was get your paper and go back inside, you old bat.

A rust-red 1975 Chevrolet was not Reid's only means of transportation; just the one he used when he knew he was going to be far too drunk to operate a vehicle with a manual transmission, that vehicle being a garage-kept, 2014 Ford Mustang.

From the outside looking in, the car was a sleeper. While it looked just like any other Mustang on the street, the difference was under the hood. The pièce de résistance was a Whipple Supercharger that when combined with a litany of other modifications and professional tuning churned out well over 800 horsepower at volumes that warranted shouting at each other when the engine revved.

He popped the door open and sank into the Recaro racing seat and pulled the straps of the harness over his shoulders. This Mustang seated two. The rear seats had been removed, and a roll cage installed. A large red canister behind the passenger seat supplied the vehicle with a fire suppression system in the event of an accident. Most of the interior trim had been removed, bare metal the theme inside.

Reid flipped the ignition switch and laid a finger over the toggle that would turn the engine over. He pressed it down, and the engine chattered to life like a giant rising from a night's slumber. A deep, guttural growl filled the garage, and putting it in first, the heeler rolled slowly out of the parking lot and onto the street, where he uncharacteristically refrained from leaving two opaque rubber strips on the road.

Cars were not just a passion for Reid Travis. They were his life. Vehicles and the things that made them go were the very reason he woke up in the morning and went to work at Doghouse Performance Engineering, the forerunner in automotive tuning and customization in the greater Los Angeles area. Situated just south of Hollywood, the tuners at Doghouse had modded cars for the rich, the famous, and everyone in between. Needless to say, some of them were almost celebrities themselves; a title Reid actively avoided and emphatically denied.

He engaged the parking brake and killed the engine with the flick of a switch, stepping out of his hot rod and entering the lobby. Coffee was on. He could smell it. It was just what he needed to get him through the first half of his day, but that morning's news would test the mettle of Columbia's best grinds.

"Reid. Morning."

"Mrng..." He grunted in reply, making a beeline for the coffee pot. Strong, black coffee splashed into a Ford Racing mug, and the heeler gingerly sipped at the hot beverage until something caught him off guard.

Silence.

He turned around to face everyone in the break room. Billy, Vance, Paul, Chris, Frank, and Hector all sat awkwardly around various tables, their faces painted glum, their eyes red, muzzles set in melancholy frowns.

"What, what's going on?" He dared to ask.

"Jeff's dead." Paul said plainly and quietly, figuring that as the owner, he might as well be the one to break the news.

Paul was the oldest team member at Doghouse and a bear, ironically enough. Portly in stature and no longer in the best of shape due to a knee surgery, the old ursine's racing days had drawn to a close. He could no longer operate a clutch, but he was not to be outdone. A Ford F-150 SVT Raptor had replaced his beloved 1971 Chevy Nova, which now sat on the showroom floor, a hat-tip to the days of American muscle.

Reid froze on the spot. His cheeks flushed and his stomach turned with the kind of anxiety that he took benzodiazepines to combat, such that he wasn't sure if they were being serious or not. Practical jokes were all too common around Doghouse, and no one was immune, but Jeff? No one would joke about Jeff like that.

"Wha..."

"He...Jeff, he was in a wreck last night. Out there on I-5, on his way home." Paul explained, his voice cracking, his eyes glassy.

Reid's breathing quickened, and he looked to drop his coffee mug at any second. Hector stood up from his seat and guided the heeler to a nearby chair, taking the coffee from him and setting it down on the table. The heeler was seated for no more than ten seconds before he bolted to his feet and strode out of the room, into the lobby and out the front door.

"Damn." Paul sighed.

When the old ursine found his protégé, he was sitting in the driver's seat of his car tossing back Valium as if it was candy.

"Hey, hey, slow down, son." Paul said, gently confiscating the pill bottle. "I know this news is hitting you hard. It's going to be hard on all of us, but I need to know you're going to be okay."

Reid wasn't going to be okay. He hadn't been okay in years, and it was no secret around the garage. Everyone knew about his addictions, his vices, his problems; they were all out there for the world to see, and the heeler had long since stopped trying to hide it. His drinking was excessive, his medication was illicitly obtained, and the potentially deadly combination of the two was the only thing that afforded him a good night's sleep.

But Jeff...why Jeff? Jeff was the embodiment of what Reid had wanted to be by thirty-six. He was married. He had a son who was reaching driving age. He had a beautiful wife, a nice home, a nice car, a career - the heeler had always been envious of him, but in spite of that, he'd always looked up to the well established Jeff Parsons.

"We're going to close up shop today." Paul muttered, shaking his head. "Go ahead and take off, we'll see you tomorrow."

"Sure, Paul." He answered quietly, and sank further into the driver's seat.

He would sit there motionless for almost an hour before he felt well enough to drive home.

***

The title of the e-mail read:

RIP - Jeff Parsons 1976-2015

_ _

_ _ Against his better judgment, Reid tapped the e-mail with his thumb and opened it on his phone, baby blue eyes scanning the heartbreaking text within.

Dear Clients of Doghouse Performance Engineering,

_ _

_ It is with our deepest regrets that we inform you we will be closed today, January 5th, in honor of our dear friend Jeff Parsons, who passed away in an automobile accident late last night. We ask that you join us in keeping Mr. Parson's family in your thoughts and prayers during this difficult time._

_ We will re-open for business at 9 AM tomorrow, January 6th. Thank you all for your continued support._

_ _

_ Best regards,_

_ Paul Owen_

_ President, DPE_

_ _

_ _ Below the text was a picture of Jeff, standing abreast with the rest of the team, beaming at the camera. Below that was the inscription that reduced the heeler to tears at last:

Jeff Parsons

Beloved Husband, Father, and Friend

Reid trembled in the chair he sat in, his elbows on the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Hot tears streamed down his muzzle, dripping off the end of his nose and dotting the dark wood.

When he'd wrung his eyes dry, he poured the last of the bottle he'd bought on the way home into his glass.

Jeff's funeral was held the following Sunday. The work week had been awkward with everyone down in the dumps about not having the lion around anymore, but as with any death, it was imperative to recognize grief. They hoped that after the lion's interment, things would slowly begin to return to normal.

Reid stood quietly in his darkest suit; his black sunglasses making him look more like a Secret Service agent than a bereaved friend. The skies were overcast and threatening rain, but the heeler was afraid to show his eyes for fear of others knowing how hung over he was. He was ashamed enough of himself, the last thing he needed was for others to be. A polished cherry wood casket was lowered into the earth, and the service was over. A few stayed by to pay their final respects, mostly family, and Reid figured he would give them a private moment. Plus, he had ridden there with Paul, and the old bear was ambling towards his pickup across the cemetery lawn.

"Hanging in there?"

"Yeah." The heeler responded quietly, staring out the window at the numerous headstones passing by on their way out of the cemetery. Paul was never one to beat around the bush, so he cut right to the chase.

"Things are going to be different, now. You're going to have some big shoes to fill."

Paul's comment broke the trance, and Reid looked over at him.

"Of course, you don't have to if you don't want to..." Paul continued, "...but I'm offering you the promotion. It pains me to replace Jeff so soon, but the fact is I've got a business to run. I need someone in that position who knows what they're doing."

The turn indicator in Paul's truck _tick-tocked_while the heeler mulled over the offer. Managing the shop entailed far more responsibility, but it was nothing he couldn't handle without the help of his meds.

"Reid, I want you to seriously consider the prospect of taking on this promotion, but son, you've got to get your head in the right place. I know you've been through some hard times, and we all just got hit with another one, and we all have our own ways of grieving."

Reid groaned inside. He knew where the conversation was headed. Paul rarely fought for words, but even the grizzled old grizzly knew he was treading on thin ice, so in the absence of speech, he worked his jaw a few times.

"Jeff thought of you like a little brother, you know. He..." Paul chuckled, "...he was so non-confrontational about things, he would - he used to come to me...about you. Maybe you'd been having a bad day. An exceptionally bad day."

Paul emphasized the last bit with a nod to the fact that Reid never had 'good' days. Only slightly less depressing ones.

"...And he'd be concerned about you. He always saw so much potential in you, in how you worked, in the way you drove, the passion you showed for what you do around the shop. I don't want to promote you just because you've been there the longest. It's because you deserve it. I'm certain it's what Jeff would want."

The lump rising in Reid's throat made it impossible for him to participate in the conversation. One word was all it would take to open the floodgates, and the last thing he wanted was to break down in front of the only person who really believed in him.

"It should have been me."

"Don't say that."

"Jeff had everything to live for. Me? I've got nothing to lose."

For a few moments, road noise was all they heard.

"I'd give my own life if it would bring him back."

"You can't look at it that way. Jeff was a good man, but when it's your time to go, it's your time to go. You believe in fate?"

Reid waved a paw in a so-so gesture and shook his head.

"I do. Maybe this is fate's way of trying to tell you something. Like maybe, you were destined for better things, perhaps?"

"I'd hate to think my promotion was contingent on Jeff's dying."

"No. Maybe at some point he would have found a job that paid better. Maybe his wife would have been forced to relocate because of hers. Any number of things could have happened. It's just a shame it happened the way it did."

The heeler shook his head. Neither man spoke a word for the remainder of the drive, not until they were sitting outside Reid's apartment. Paul sighed and threw it in park, turning to face his young protégé.

"I want you to think real hard about this, and not over a case of beer, either. Be good to yourself, get some sleep tonight, and I'll see you bright and early in the morning, okay?"

He got only a nod in response.

***

Reid felt no different from usual come Monday morning, but by some random stroke of confidence, he stood a little taller in the bathroom mirror in spite of his recurring post-inebriation abdominal pains. A long night preceded that morning, a night full of soul searching, self-actualization, and prescription drug-fueled attempts at getting to sleep.

There was no turning this down. Palms on the bathroom counter, he leaned in close to his reflection, staring into his deep-set, pale blue eyes. He was going to march right into that shop, into Paul's office, and take the job, lest he run the risk of some idiot being hired to preside over them all in the garage they'd come to know as a home away from home.

When Reid entered the garage for the first time as shop manager, he was greeted with applause. Bittersweet pining for their departed friend was apparent in their faces, but they smiled no less, happy for him and happy that a newcomer would not be ordering them around - something that invariably fared poorly in the past.

A newcomer. Within days, there would be interviewees, ranging from starry-eyed kids looking for a summer gig that would impress their friends to retirees whose heydays had shriveled in the tail end of the seventies. Two interviews in, Reid patted himself on the back for maintaining professionalism, a feat he hadn't the foggiest idea how he accomplished.

The first candidate for hire was a middle-aged German shepherd with a crew cut named Richard. What Richard lacked in personality, he made up for in credentials and technical know-how. The heeler had even uncharacteristically cracked a few lighthearted jokes just to see if he could get even a grin out of the other canine.

He hadn't been able to.

Second in line was a gregarious and brazen old hare, his affable smile framed by a graying muzzle. His handshake was unnecessarily strong, and the heeler had hardly been able to get a word in edgewise throughout the entire process. He didn't bother asking if the hare had had any questions at the end of the interview. Just the promise of a phone call that would never come.

One more Valium down the hatch. Reid took a sip of water and glanced at his watch; it was almost time for the next interview.

There was a meek knock at the door, which threw the heeler off. All of the previous applicants had just entered without so much as a warning, but at least this one showed a little courtesy.

"Come in."

The door swung open, and in walked a Shiba Inu, short in stature, timid-looking, and about as apprehensive as someone should look applying for a job at one of the best tuner shops in the United States. He was dressed nicer than the previous candidates were, dressed in a white button-down shirt, khakis, and a haphazardly tied necktie.

"Hi, um...I'm here for the interview. Are you Mr. Travis?"

"You can call me Reid; we don't do that 'mister' stuff here. Have a seat."

Reid thumbed through the resumes on his clipboard. Kelvin Aoki.

"You are...Kelvin?"

"Yes, sir."

"How's that last name pronounced?"

"Ay-OH-kee."

"Gotcha. So tell me about yourself, what's your background?"

"Well, I'm half Japanese, on my Dad's side. I was born and raised here in L.A., I graduated from-"

"No, I mean your automotive background. What do you know about cars?"

"Honestly...not much. I have a pretty general idea of how most of the modifications work and what they do, um, last year I had my car worked on here. You guys tuned it up for me."

"What do you drive?"

"Nissan 350Z."

"You like it even more since you got it tuned?"

"Oh, yes sir, absolutely."

"Good answer," Reid replied with a wink, drawing a slight grin from the Shiba. "So let me ask you this, why do you want to work here?"

The Shiba appeared to think for a moment.

"I love cars. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to have a career in the automotive industry. Just to have the opportunity to interview here at Doghouse Performance Engineering is like a dream come true! I figured if this didn't work out, I was going to become a mechanic or something, but I feel like it would leave something to be desired."

Reid grinned, a rare occurrence. He glanced down at the clipboard that held the Shiba's threadbare resume. Kelvin Aoki was a clean slate. No bad habits to break. Just the way he liked them.

"All right. First things first, take off that fuckin' tie. Where do you think you are, in a cubicle farm?"

The Shiba Inu was taken aback by the interviewer's sudden discourse from gentility to hostility, and he gaped for a moment or two before reaching up and loosening the poorly-tied four-in-hand that secured the borrowed tie around his neck. He wadded it up and stuffed it in his pocket.

"You aren't going to be needing things like that here. That'll get caught in a pulley on your first day and you'll be someone's new serpentine belt." Reid winked, and he couldn't help but smile when he saw the light in the other dog's eyes.

"You-you're serious? I got the job?" Kelvin asked in disbelief, standing up from the chair.

"Well, don't get a chubby or anything, but yes."

Reid reached forward and shook hands with the younger dog, fighting back the urge to grimace at the level of happiness apparent in the other canine's face.

He left Kelvin with instructions to be at the shop at nine o'clock sharp the following morning, and in no uncertain terms, told him to lose the church duds lest they become stained with oil and bearing grease.

Reid ran a hand back through his blonde locks, watching the overly-excited Shiba leave in his import hot rod. He was green, that was certain, but he could be built up. The heeler tossed the other resumes in the trash and headed off for the bay.

He hoped he hadn't made a mistake.