Flipping Through the Pages
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 44
Winslow Schott sat on a folding chair outside his workshop, a half-cold mug of coffee resting on a plastic crate beside him. His mutt, Ace, lay curled nearby in a patch of sun, twitching in his sleep like he was chasing something.
The fan in the shop window whirred, stirring up hot, dusty air. Out in the yard, the same mountains of scrap and busted machines stood where they always had—rusting in silence, waiting for someone who might need a part or two. Lately, that someone didn’t come around much.
Winslow had spent most of his life out here. His father had run the place before him, and his grandfather before that. A family of junk men. Schott & Sons Salvage.
People called him *Toyman*, though not for any real reason. Just a nickname that stuck. “Still playing with your toys, Toyman?” they’d say when they caught him tinkering with old appliances or welding together junk into something half-useful. He didn’t care. He liked building things. It was better than drinking, better than rotting away.
The sound of a car door slamming broke the afternoon stillness.
Ace perked up with a short bark.
Winslow stood slowly, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his back pocket, and walked toward the front gate.
A yellow cab sat out front, dust kicking off its tires. Out stepped a tall man in a long dark coat and a girl—a teenager, maybe fifteen, sharp-eyed and quiet.
Not the usual kind of customers.
Winslow met them halfway.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
The man nodded. “Looking to buy.”
Winslow gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Well, you’re in the right place if rust’s what you’re after. Name’s Winslow Schott.” He stuck out a calloused hand.
The man shook it. “Warren.”
The girl didn’t say a word, just looked around the yard like she was already casing the place.
Warren pointed past a few dead pickups and a stack of washing machines. “That old bus—is it yours?”
Winslow turned to follow his gaze. A busted-up Trailways sat slanted in the weeds, paint peeling, windows clouded with grime.
“Yeah,” Winslow said. “Been sitting there damn near fifteen years. Doesn’t run. Tires are dry-rotted. Floor’s probably half caved in. Mice love it, though.”
The girl walked over to it, trailing her fingers along the metal.
Winslow followed them both, arms crossed.