FOUR ON THE FLOOR

Dad clutches, "First" . . . "Second" . . . "Third," and I shift from the "death seat." On H1, we'll fly into fourth.

The first three times his black '64 Impala's stolen, it's undamaged. He parks right outside our front door to keep an eye on his baby.

Today it's storming. We're in the car waiting for a break in the downpour. Suddenly my dad throws open his door. Slam! I look. A neighbor boy's down on all fours. Dad offers a mechanical hand.

"I'm okay," he mumbles, bleeding. Rocking upright, he wobbles off.

Dad closes the door. "He steals my car," he says, nodding.