PHIL

Phil woke in his orange room. The faded orange curtains were doing little to block the already blazing sun. He gently tossed his duvet off him, exposing himself and his blood orange sheets. He sat up, slipped on his slippers, and shuffled on the only thing that wasn't orange, a mustard yellow carpet.

He threw on his house robe before exiting his bedroom. There was no one in the house, no one to care if he was naked, but he would never leave his room that way. As he made his way down the hallway, his reflection caught his eye, and he turned. He barely looked at himself in the mirror lately and was mildly surprised at the number of wrinkles covering his face. He began poking at the skin hanging under his eyes and laughed aloud, "Never complain about getting old for far too many people were never given that chance." His father would always say that before beginning to complain about his hips or back or whatever was aching him that day. 

He started his usual morning routine with his typical breakfast in the chair he always occupied. He then yawned and got up for his standard walk around the grounds. It was an unusually bright and sunny day for this time of year. He walked and whistled, whistled and walked but stopped when he noticed something unusual. He didn't realize what he saw for a moment, so he stood rooted and took in his surroundings, his eyes finally narrowing beside his barn. His truck, his old red truck, was missing. This was the last thing he needed. He huffed back to his house, cursing under his breath about how this town has been changing, nowhere but downhill. No good, no good at all.

He called the cops and was immediately forwarded to the chief. A little surprised but happy to be taken seriously, he described the truck and gave his personal information. The chief told him he would be by but not till late, probably well after 6pm. Looking at his watch, Phil noted it was 9am and tried to argue with the chief to no prevail. 

In the meantime, he puttered about the house and found some old photos of his truck, perhaps these would help the case. The pickup belonged to his dad back when the farm was fully functioning. An old ford pushed well beyond its limits with more zip ties and rust spots than most three cars have combined. He knew the truck wasn't worth anything, but it meant something to him. He pulled out photos: he and his dad tinkering under the hood, he and his wife sitting in the bed of the truck and his young son, no older than 5, chasing it down the long driveway. It must be 60 years old. How they got it out of his lawn without him hearing the familiar sound of the engine and squealing breaks was beyond him. 

He briefly toyed with the idea of calling his son but decided it was best not to bother him. So he made some lunch to occupy himself. He couldn't find the kettle, so instead of his usual tea, he had a cup of orange juice, a nice refreshing change. He found a book and read, ate lunch, swept, exercised, and read some more. Finally, the doorbell rang. He opened the door to a handsome middle-aged man. "Hello, I'm Phil, thanks for coming." He stood there for a few moments patiently waiting with his arm awkwardly stuck out. "And you are?" he continued prompting the man. The officer took his hand and introduced himself as Cheif John, and they set off to work. 

Phil gave a full description of the truck as well as where and when it had last been seen. He discussed its net worth and how it had to have been towed off his property. John listened intently and spent a long while looking through the stack of photos before asking Phil to take him around to where the truck used to sit.

It was a beautiful cool evening, and they didn't need flashlights as the moon was so bright. They spent the walk to the barn chatting. "Please tell me if there's anything else wrong." Said the chief, "Nothing comes to mind," Phil replied. "Anything at all, even a small abnormality can make a difference in cases like this." "Nothing in the yard." "And what about in your home?" "other than a missing kettle, nothing to note." This seemed to take the chief by surprise "missing kettle," the officer looked concerned, "why didn't you tell me, when I first got here?" Phil replied, laughing a little, "is it relevant to a missing truck? It's probably just hidden behind some box." The chief sighed, "no, I guess it's not relevant, but I have some time I'll help you find it." They stopped by the farm, but chief John spent little to no time looking for clues before turning back.  

In the house, Chief John managed to pull the kettle out from a high up shelve. He proceeded to brew some tea and even had the audacity to grab some croissants. "Help yourself… I guess", Phil was a little thrown at his manners, the nerve of these officers, your uniform doesn't grant you access to my house. He's sick of people walking all over him and had half a mind to kick him out. "Sorry-uh sir-, I wasn't thinking. I have this tendency to make anyplace a home. I ran from one place to the next today barely ate a thing." He chuckled awkwardly and put the croissant back. 

There was a moment where the two looked at each other, then coming to his senses, John haphazardly looked around the room. Phil finally piped up. "What about my truck?" "Ah, yes, sorry, slipped my mind." "That is why you're here." "Yes, yes." Phil went over and grabbed the croissants, his anger fading he felt sorry for the officer, he looked so tired. "Must have been a hell of a day if you can't remember why you're here." He tossed the officer a croissant, and the man smiled. "I put out an APV on your truck, all my officers are aware and looking. We take car theft seriously here, and I will let you know of any changes." 

He shoved the croissant in his mouth covering the table in crumbs. "ok well I guess that's it.", "I guess so." The officer snagged a second croissant for the road and headed out. 

JOHN

John drove down the familiar farm roads towards his house. His stomach had that terrible lead feeling to it, and his heart was beating so fast he could hear it. He looked in his rearview mirror even though the farm was kilometers back and shook his head. John wanted to believe it was worse than he expected, but he wasn't even sure if that was the case. Had he simply been willing himself to believe his father's state was ok? Had he always known deep down that it wasn't?

His mind was spinning. He wanted to be home. He needed to tell his wife what happened. He needed to hold his little boy Derek and to be with family who knew who he was. His own father hadn't remembered him. That was the first time that it had happened that clearly. He knew it was coming, previously his father had forgotten for a moment or two but always remembered shortly after. This time there was nothing, not any recognition at all, and it was the worst feeling in the world. John thought about his reaction: from his hesitation at the door to his decision not to tell his father who he was and wondered if he had done the right thing. He wished he had the courage to say he was his son, but it was too hard. John had seen his father forget other family members, he looked so scared when he couldn't remember someone. He could not face that fear today, especially when he couldn't stay over. 

He looked down at his speedometer and let off the gas. As a teenager, he would fly down these roads, but that felt like a whole other life. He hadn't speed in over 20 years. He thought back to the last time he had. 

It was an evening like this very one. Warm with a slight breeze, clear skies, and a very bright moon. He and his best friend Ted had snuck out of his house and ran to the barn. They went the long way around to avoid Harrold - the sheepdog - and tiptoed quietly by the hen house. It was a miracle they made it to the truck. Quickly they put it into neutral and pushed it al the way to the main road. Sweaty but basking in their success, they speed off to the nearest bush party. Laughing and blasting music, the two friends felt as invincible as teenagers do.

80km: they rolled down the windows. 

100km: they played drums on the steering dash.

120km: they discussed which girls would be present tonight.

140km: they had no hopes of seeing the deer running on the side. 

0km: John sat suspended upside-down and tried to take in his surroundings. He noted the amount of glass and blood. He looked towards Jay but didn't see him. He thought he must have gone for help. 

He woke up many hours later in the hospital. He was concussed, badly bruised, and had broken both his right leg and right arm but was overall ok. His father was the first person he saw when he woke. He was sitting next to his bed, already holding his hand. He told John to be quite as he tried to apologize and, after a few minutes, told him Ted was thrown from the car but would pull through as well. For the next two weeks, his father never left his side at the hospital. He continued to be there as he always had been and helped his recovery. He never yelled, never got angry, never mentioned his little red truck. 

A flash of high-beams brought John back to the present. He was driving on autopilot and was a little surprised to note how close he was to home. He thought back to that truck: how much his dad loved it, the photos of his dad and himself growing up with the pickup, how his dad never punished him, and finally of how eventually he had promised his dad he would help him build a new one and never did. 

As he pulled into his driveway, he allowed himself a good cry. He felt it all. The guilt of the crash so many years ago, the pain of knowing his father was left alone, and the grief of being a son forgotten. He had made up his mind before going inside. One way or another, he was going home to his farm. He talked to his wife well into the night, and together they made a plan.

PHIL 

Phil woke up to the sound of his doorbell at 6:15am. He got up and threw on his house robe before heading downstairs. Who was coming to his farm at this odd hour? He opened the door to find a fully dressed police officer looking at him. He laughed and hugged his son.

"Why are you here so early, son." He tried to pull away, but John held on tighter, and he felt him shaking. "Bad day at the office?" he asked, "or is it something at home?" John simply continued to cry into his shirt, and he held him close. "No need to worry son, I'm here, come in, come home. I have your favourite croissants. We can talk about if you want, or we can just hang out and forget for a while" He stroked his son's hair thought of him as a young boy when they embraced more often. He squeezed a little tighter as he remembered the boy who was the life of the party, the boy who could charm anyone but always came back to his dad. He always wanted to sit next to his dad at dinner and never even left his side when he completed the farm chores. He remembered when he was small enough to fit on his lap and steer as they drove his red truck around the yard. He was in no rush to let go of his boy, no matter how old he was. After a minute John answered "I'd like that a lot Pop, I would really love that. Thank you, but I have a gift for you first."

Phil allowed his son to help him down his steps and lead him around his property to his barn. He noticed the barn doors were open and was intrigued as they walked arm in arm inside. His eyes widened, and he clapped his hands together as he saw his gift: a wonderful red truck. It was beaten, rusted, and he thought he could smell brake fluid, but it was perfect. "A promise, I waited too long to fulfill Pop. I hope you like it" As Phil took his first few walks around the truck, he assured John it was great. "I'll need help fixing it. Looks like it will need some work." "Yes, I thought maybe I could spend more time here, well a lot more time actually. Pop, I'm moving home." His father smiled and said, "I'd like that a lot." John continued, "This will be our project over the winter, you little Derek, and I will get it all sorted!" "Derek?" His father asked, and John's smile faltered but only for a moment. "I'll introduce you, he's going to love this little red truck."