My Mechanic Found 200 Extra Pounds in My Trunk

I thought my friend had returned my BMW with an empty tank.

That was annoying.

Then the car started driving like it had a safe tied to the back.

My mechanic checked everything: tires, brakes, suspension, computer codes. Nothing made sense until he opened the trunk, lifted the floor panel, and found a canvas-wrapped mass jammed into the spare-tire well.

He looked once and nearly dropped his flashlight.

“Evan,” he said, “step back and call 911.”

I had lent my car for a blind date.

Somehow, I got it back with a police investigation in the trunk.

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When Kyle returned the car, he looked like a man who had already picked out a wedding suit.

He tossed me the key and slapped my shoulder. "Thanks, Evan. When this works out, you're drinking for free at my wedding."

I looked him up and down. Kyle had the kind of face that made people trust him for about five minutes. Then he opened his mouth and ruined it.

"You filled the tank, right?"

"Of course," he said, hand on his chest. "What kind of friend do you think I am?"

The kind I had known since we were six. The kind who once tried to fix my bicycle brakes with tape. The kind who was unreliable in very specific and creative ways.

But he was also the kid who had fought three boys for me in middle school and taken the blame when we broke a classroom window. He was an idiot, not a thief.

So I believed him.

That lasted until I got in the car and the low-fuel light blinked at me.

I stared at the dash. Then I stared at Kyle's back as he walked away whistling.

"You absolute piece of work," I muttered.

I took it to a gas station and filled it myself. I was annoyed, but not surprised. In my head, Kyle had probably burned half a tank driving circles around some restaurant district, trying to look rich in a borrowed BMW.

The next morning, work called me to a neighboring city. I got on the highway before eight.

Five minutes later, I knew something was off.

The car did not feel broken. It felt loaded.

When I pressed the gas, the engine responded late. The rear end dragged. The steering felt heavier than usual. At first I thought I had imagined it because I was still irritated at Kyle. Then I checked the fuel readout and frowned.

The number kept getting worse.

This car knew me. I had driven it for years. On a flat highway, with steady speed, it behaved the same way every time.

Not today.

I pulled into a rest stop and checked the tires. All four were fine. No flat, no visible damage, nothing caught underneath.

I stood there with one hand on the door, staring at the car.

"What did you do, Kyle?" I said.

For a second, a stupid thought came to me: Had he hauled bricks? Furniture? Gym equipment? Had he tried to impress his date by pretending my trunk was a moving van?

With Kyle, none of those were impossible.

I finished the work trip, but the drive back was worse. Every time I accelerated, the car seemed to pull against me. By the time I reached town, I did not go home. I turned straight into Reynolds Auto, the repair shop I had used for years.