The motorcycle hummed along the dirt path slowly, puttered twice, and was silent.

Dan dismounted the Triumph, pushing the kickstand out with his foot.

“That a girl,” he said, patting the machine like a horse. She didn’t respond but was warm to the touch and that was enough for Dan.

He looked at the rock off to the side, caked in mud.

1307 Landisville Dr. it said in black spray paint. He was in the right place.

Dan fished around in his heavy leather jacket for some cigarettes. He’d quit years ago, but with the new bike, he’d also taken to the smoking aesthetic. At first it had been a joke, a way to appease his friend Tom who smoked far more than he, but slowly the craving had caught back up with him. His wife hated the smell, but it was masked well enough by the wind and fresh air that accompanied his motorcycle rides. He would probably blame Tom anyways, like a high schooler returning home with alcohol on his breath.

Finding the new pack, he pulled one out of the box along with a lighter out. He ignited and took a drag. He was only now mulling through the intelligence of this late-night meetup. His wife would’ve told him he was going to a murder house to be murdered. He would’ve laughed it off before, but now upon arrival, the barn with only one light did give off a murder-y vibe, and the distant house with shutters that seemed as if they’d been closed for years did nothing to help this.

And the flashlight making its way towards him from the house to the barn. That also didn’t help.

It bounced along a path towards him, in more of a rush then Dan would’ve liked. Dan took one last drag of his cigarette in the hopes of steadying his nerves. It didn’t do much. Disappointed, he flicked the butt into the wet underbrush and straightened his jacket, prepping himself for salesman duty.

“How are ya?” came a deep, rural voice, “you must be Dan?!”

He was an older man in what Dan would’ve guessed to be his late 50’s. He wore a tattered flannel, which went nicely with his paint stained jeans and battered boots. He had a faded Phillies baseball cap to help round out the rustic aesthetic.

“The one and only!” said Dan, rushing to grab the man’s outstretched hand, “And you’d have to be George.”

“In the flesh,” said George, squeezing Dan’s hand tightly. Dan did his best to match the intensity of the shake. George was stronger than he’d expected.

“Never been one for much chit-chat, Daniel. Shall we check her out and see if we can work ourselves a deal?”

“Of course,” said Dan.

George released Dan’s hand and they both began to walk along the muddy path towards the barn.

“So, if I may ask, why the rush? Your history shows you’re quite the car guy. I would assume you’d have no trouble getting an M1 off your hands.”

His business mind begged him not to ask it. What was it to him if this man wanted to give away a car at nearly half the expected value?

“You could ask,” said George, pulling the rotting barn doors open, “but I’m not sure it would be in your best interest.”

“Now come take a look at her,” said George, beckoning Dan in, clearly keen to change the subject, “she really is a beaut. Once you see her, you’ll have to take her.”

As promised, there was a car parked amid the straw, a tarp draped over it to protect from both eyes and the elements.

George ripped the tarp clean off, tossing it to the side. Even in the dim lighting, Dan could recognize the faded BMW insignia and the unmistakable slender build of an M1.

It didn’t look to be in bad condition at all, save a large dent on the right side of the front bumper. It had clearly hit something, and that something had damaged the bumper as well as destroyed the headlight.

Dan approached it, blown away at what a steal this might be. He would have to run it by Tom, make sure it was in running condition, but he already knew he had to have this.

He knelt to examine the damaged front of the car, wondering, even now, if he could bring the price down on an already ineffable steal.

“She is gorgeous.”

“I thought you’d like her,” said George, “so do we have ourselves a deal? I said I’d price it at what I posted but only if she was gone within the day.”

“I think we just might-” said Dan, but he paused for a moment.

He had noticed the red stain hidden within the dent. At first, he thought it might be paint, perhaps from hitting a curb or another red car, but, as he scratched his nail at the red, he was surprised to see that no flakes came off. Something more sinister began to surface in Dan’s mind, putting all this into a more digestible, albeit sickening, context.

“What happened here?” asked Dan.

There was a moment of silence.

“Hit a deer” whispered George.

“A deer?” repeated Dan.

“Yes,” said George, “now do we have ourselves a deal?”

Dan felt vulnerable, as if he’d asked one too many questions. He got up slowly, his wife’s advice telling him to get out as soon as possible.

He spun with his hand outstretched.

“We do,” he said, “but I’ll have to come back tomorrow to pick her up. Does she run fine?”

“Better than fine,” said George with a smile, seemingly trying to crush the deal into Dan’s hand.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Dan.

And with that he let go of George’s hand and began to walk back down the path, towards his bike.

Hands shaking, he searched again for a cigarette, lighting it as quickly as possible. His wife would be upset enough if he went through with the purchase, so what was one more cigarette going to hurt?

He kicked his Triumph to life and took off down the abandoned road, winding his way home.