I felt joy, as the tattered keys fell into my cold hands, were indescribable. I walked into his home to sign the papers and seal the deal, a wave of peace and security comes over me as I see the Christian decor in his farmhouse. Not even my lack of a driver’s license could stop my happiness in the passenger seat. Two hours north, deep backcountry, covered in snow. Two years delayed, it feels like I’m behind everyone else; it’s cold. 

I curl my sweatshirt around my broken knuckles to protect them from the icy air. I grip the money as he grips my keys, we exchange, crisp hundred dollar bills—all of my money, two years of hard work. The fob and key manufactured 22 years prior to this moment, just waiting for me, searching every day for the right owner, and they finally found me. Along the line of wrong owners, it suffered some serious scars. Cracks, scratches, and bends make it hard for the key to do its job. I hug the wheel as it starts my car.

I’m wearing my extra-large red sweatshirt; it doesn't fit because it is a hand-me-down. My shirt beneath, too small, doesn't reach the waistline of my stained khakis. The carnivorous cold searches for skin and finds its way through the rips in my shoes and socks. Two years late for my own clothes.  I didn’t receive the blessing of U.S. Citizenship that most others possessed upon birth. An unlucky trip to Canada left me two years behind my peers. 

Rust spreads like a virus, infecting my fenders, and plaguing the underbody. Coilovers and wheel wells sick with rust and wear, dying—finally found someone to revive and protect her. I am so upset, but as I look at the stars through my moon roof, I put my hands behind my head and relax—a feeling of revival—because of this car. 

I look over my shoulder as I slam fourth gear and VTEC kicks in yo. Pushing 70 on this suburban road, trying to outrun the weight—the stress on my two shoulders. My lack of a license, lack of insurance, and lack of valid plates. I can’t tell if I’m racing towards them—those two years—or attempting to outrun the stress of them. 

The sound of squealing tires leaves a bouquet of aromas when I dump the clutch. Burnt rubber, 93 octane gas, and a burning clutch put a smile on my face. The broken speakers rattle my car—typical Honda—almost too hard to hear over my droning exhaust. I am one with the car, connected at the wheel and shifter. No screens hinder my view, no cameras in the way, and no automatic transmission doing my job for me. This is my car; I am in control. A simplified control panel from the ’90s paired with the modern quick-release gives the interior an attractive, clean feel. The fogging windshield weakens my view—more than my tint already does—but I do not care.

This is the moment. The moment I have dreamed of for two years.