I open the door and step in. Papers and folders are scattered all over the floor and stacked so high on the desk that I can’t even see the computer. She’s kneeling in the center of the mess, her eyes red from crying.

“Hey, honey.” She starts sorting through papers. “Did you need something?”

“I just wanted to say goodnight.” It’s hard to see her like this, so broken down.

“Goodnight, sweetie.” She smiles, but it looks forced.

“I start work in a few days,” I remind her. “So I’m going to either need to borrow the car or get a ride there.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle a job?” she asks distractedly as she sifts through a small stack of papers that looks like medical bills.

I lean against the doorframe. “Yes, I’m sure.”

We’ve had this conversation at least ten times already, and I’ve given her the same answer. If I didn’t think I could handle a job, then I wouldn’t have begged Benny again today to take a risk on me. Thankfully, he took pity on me, mostly because of my father.

“Your father was a good man,” he said as he struggled to turn on the computer mouse. “You know he helped me out when he was your age. It was when I first opened the store.” He pounded the mouse against the counter. “Damn technology. I told Margret I didn’t want an upgrade, that my system was fine, but she said it was getting too complicated without having electronic records of everything.”

“Here, let me help you.” I took the mouse from him, flipped it over, and turned on the power button. “It should work now,” I said, handing it back to him.

He looked at the mouse dubiously then set it down on the pad and clicked it. His eyes lit up as he stared at the screen, and he smiled at me. “Grey, you have yourself a job.”

He hired me for weekends since I have school and practice on weekdays. That is, if I ever make it back on the team. Truthfully, I think I would have asked for weekdays if my college career wasn’t riding on a sports scholarship.

“There it is!” my mom exclaims as she waves the paper in the air.

“What is that?” I inch into the cluttered room.

“It’s the title to your father’s first car.” She hops over a plastic bin that’s in the middle of the room and hands me the paper. “Your uncle Nate’s been storing it for your dad since forever. He was going to give it to you as a graduation present, but . . .” She forces a lump down in her throat. “But, yeah, I thought it might be better to give it to you now.”

I look down at the title. A 1966 Chevy Impala.

“We should probably just sell it,” I say quietly.

“That’s really up to you.” When I open my mouth to protest, she adds, “Your father wanted you to have that car. If you sell it, I won’t take the money. You can put it away for college or something. Besides, in the condition the car is in right now, it’s not really worth anything.”

“Does it run?”

“Kind of.”

“How can something kind of run?”

“I’m not sure.” She twists a strand of her hair around her finger, thinking. “How about we go talk to Nate before school tomorrow? I can drive you over there before I have to go to work, and if it runs, then you can drive it to school.”

“Are you sure you’ll have time to do that?”

“Of course I do.”

“Okay. I guess that sounds good.” I glance down at the title again.

My dad even signed it over to me. I don’t know why, but I find myself tearing up. He must have done it when he found out he was sick.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” my mom asks. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean for it to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.” I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt as I back out of the room. “I need to get to bed. We’re going to have to get up really early if we’re going to check out the car.” I turn to leave yet pause in the doorway. “Mom, thanks for giving me this. It . . . It means a lot.”

I leave the room before I start bawling. When I get to my room, I take out the envelope I hid under the mattress earlier today. I thought I’d have more time to decide if I wanted to use the money, more time to decide if I was ready to give up the signed baseball my dad gave to me at the first Yankee’s game we ever went to.

“My dad gave it to me at the first game we ever went to,” he said with pride as he handed me the signed ball.

“Thanks, Dad.” I looked down at it in awe, knowing I was never going to forget the moment.

I suck back the tears and write my mom’s name on the front of the envelope along with the message: Someone once helped me out when I needed it, and I want to pay it forward. Hope this helps. Then I sneak out the front door and put it in the mailbox.

I hate being sneaky about it, but I know my mom will never take the money if she knew where I got it. I also know it’s not enough money to solve all our problems, but hopefully it’ll help keep my family afloat until the house sells.

After I return to my room, I close the door and take a good look at the emptiness—another painful reminder of how much everything has changed, how my dad’s gone and is never coming back. He’ll never come to another one of my games again. There won’t be any more Sundays of watching our favorite teams play. There won’t be any more celebration dinners.

All I have left now are memories of him and a beat up old car.

With the title still clutched in my hand, I crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep.

First thing the next morning, my mom walks out to the mailbox to stick a bill inside. By the time she returns to the kitchen, she looks as if she’s seen a ghost.

“Everything okay?” I ask her as I butter a slice of toast.

She shakes her head, her gaze descending to the envelope in her hand. “It’s nothing.” She turns the envelope over several times before shoving it into her purse. Then she plasters on a fake smile. “You about ready to head to Uncle Nate’s?”

I put the butter back in the fridge. “Yeah, let’s go.”

We drop Mia off at school before we drive to my uncle Nate’s house. My mom prepares to leave the second he gets the engine started, muttering that she needs to make a quick stop at the bank before she heads to work. I’m glad to hear her say that because I was a little worried she might not use the money.

She gives me thirty dollars before she heads for her car. “It’s for gas,” she says when I open my mouth in protest. “And I don’t want to hear you argue about it. You’ll take the money or else.”

I stuff the bills into my wallet. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Just make it last as long as possible.” She gets into her car and drives away with the tires kicking up a cloud of dust.

Once she’s gone, I concentrate on the car in front of me. It’s in worse condition than I imagined. The passenger door is dented, the entire outside is practically bondo, and it’s in serious need of a paint job. On a positive note, the tires are in good condition, the interior’s pretty decent, and there’s hardly any rust.

“She could be a real beaut with some body work and a new paint job,” my uncle Nate insists as I lap the car, eyeballing all the scratches and dings.

“Would it be worth anything if I did?” I feel guilty for bringing it up, but I need to know.

The money I gave my mom last night isn’t going to last very long, and I’m worried my family’s going to be kicked out in the streets. I know my dad would rather me sell the car and pawn off his baseball to keep that from happening, contrary to what my mom believes.

Uncle Nate runs his hand over his head. “You want to sell it?”

I crouch down to inspect a large dent in the bumper. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, you could get a lot out of it if it was fixed properly,” he says, giving the tire a soft kick with his boot.

“Really?” I run my fingers along a small spot of remaining cherry red paint.