Junkyards reliably contain what I term “mystery cases.” A sparkling-red 2002 Chevrolet Cavalier, for instance, whose door, trunk, and hood seams have been sealed with bright-yellow “EVIDENCE” stickers. I extract guilty pleasure from examining the cars whose upholstery and airbags are blood-bespattered, along with those sad victims of animal collisions—a repairable 2016 Ram pickup with a tuft of fur driven into its pretzeled radiator, matching deer carcass 50 feet distant. Then I spy a monster crusher capable of pulverizing cars into trapezoids, its maw frozen on the front third of a 1980 Volkswagen Rabbit, looking like an anaconda eating, well, a rabbit. If you anthropomorphize cars, as I do, junkyards are a thousand funerals at once.
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