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Runner up
 Coolant
 Hans Eisenbeis

When Ken was in college, his brother Tim loaned him his 1984 Vanagon. Tim was hitchhiking to Los Angeles. Though Tim's van was a decade old with 100,000 miles, it was in mint condition, and he hoped it would stay that way. It was a "waterboxer" -- the first water-cooled engine in a Vanagon. The most tangible advantage of which was a terrific heater, a lifesaver on the frigid North Dakota plains.

Tim was also proud of the radio, which was nothing particularly fancy, just the factory installed AM/FM/cassette deck. But it still worked flawlessly, and he was sure this was a sign of good karma that would protect the rest of the car, from the heater to the heads. Even the original clock kept chugging along.

So the "Vee-Dub" stayed with Ken back in Fargo. Ken wasn't supposed to drive it much. Just enough to keep the battery charged and the injectors clean.

Ken drove the Vanagon to college up in Grand Forks and parked it on the other side of campus next to a field of sugar beets. He carefully forged a series of parking permits and taped them on the sliding side windows. These forged parking permits fooled the right people. Even so, Ken got parking tickets when the bogus expiration dates he'd stamped on them came and went.

Ken parked his brother's van all winter because he couldn't afford to put gas in it. It was just as well, because the road salt would eventually take its toll, and the rust would start to creep out from the wheel wells.

Ken didn't have any money at all. He would call the telephone number on vending machines and lie to them, telling them he'd lost his money, and they'd send him little envelopes just big enough for a few quarters and dimes. He thought his karma and his dharma balanced out when he spent the money in the same vending machine from which he'd gotten the phone number. He said that way they're not really losing any money, like a quarter that keeps coming out of a pay phone until it eventually sticks.

One cold day shortly before the Christmas holiday, Ken had walked across campus to fire up the "Vee-Dub" and warm it up. He noticed it was about out of gas, so he drove to a nearby Conoco and put $1.50 in the tank -- it was all he had at the moment. He thought it was a pain in the ass that you had to take the keys out of the ignition to open the gas cap, since the cap had its own separate key. What if you wanted to keep the thing running? It took so damn long to warm up anyway. He levered his fingernail into the ring and pryed it apart, running the ignition key off the rest of the ring without stopping the engine. With the van still running, he pumped the gas and paid with five quarters and five nickels slapped next to the register.

The woman behind the counter gave him a sour look, either for the absurd amount of gas he'd bought, the way he'd paid for it, or for leaving the van running while he filled it. Ken could have cared less. He hustled back through the bitter North Dakota wind. He had a habit of jumping in and out of the passenger door because there was no steering wheel to get around, and there was one of those granny handles mounted to the inside of the door frame. Plus it was that much closer, and every foot counted in this kind of cold.

Not wanting to risk running out of gas, Ken drove straight back to the beet field and parked in the same spot. Back in the dormitory, Ken was sitting at his desk doodling with a pencil, his feet nice and cozy up on his roommate's bed. He'd just turned the heat up when someone rushed into the dormitory with the news that some kids were ripping off stereos from every car down at the beet field. "They're hitting every single car, one right after the other." Ken jumped out of his chair, upsetting a small pyramid of empty Mello Yello cans. He imagined the gaping hole in the center of the angular brown dashboard of his brother's Vanagon. He imagined the severed and spitting wires.

Ken ran down four flights of stairs, two at a time. He was out the door and twenty feet down the icy sidewalk when he realized he'd forgotten to put his shoes on. His feet were just a little cold, he was surprised they weren't colder. He decided to push onward, he'd just run as fast as he could, maybe the increased circulation would be enough. Halfway across campus, his feet had turned into numb little clubs, and his socks had absorbed a lot of water. They started to freeze into hard little booties. His joints started to stiffen, and he had to swing his arms a little harder to keep going.

Now that he was halfway there, it seemed equally foolish to turn around and go back. He realized his best bet was to get to the van and get it started, let it heat up and thaw out his feet, then he could drive back to the dorm. From the dormitory driveway, it would be a quick skip to the door, and he'd go change his socks and put his shoes on.

Ken stumbled along, no longer running, but walking as fast as he could. The pain began to rise up his legs, past his knees, and into his hips. In the distance, he could see the square brown loaf, Tim's Vanagon, parked between two unremarkable American sedans. He knew his feet were screwed, but he began to visualize what it would feel like in the toasty van, right up in front. Or stretched out across the back seat with his feet dangling in front of the rear heat exchanger. At this point, he could care less whether they'd ripped off the stupid stereo. Now getting to his brother's van was a matter of survival.

At last he reached the brown Vanagon. It was a color some people called "tope". Others called it "crap-colored." It didn't matter now; it was the most beautiful color he'd ever seen. He noticed too that the burglars had skipped his brother's van. It had good locks, but Ken thought it was probably one of those VW-karma things.

As he rounded the side to the driver's door, his shadow swept across the faux parking permit. A few dimes and nickels spilled out of his pocket as he extracted the keys with clumsy, numb fingers. He juggled the ring of keys up and down like it was too hot to hold, blowing jets of steam and cursing. Looking into his palm, he stopped jogging in place and his eyes went wide. His head jerked up and his mouth fell open. He stared in the window. There in the ignition was his ringless key.