My Father's Hands by M.D. Smith IV

I have my father's hands in a gallon jar of formaldehyde. I paid the mortician a tip since it was a closed casket after the wreck. He said no one would know.

Dad always said his hands were his fortune—thick, scarred, clever with engines and card tricks. Now they float, pale as drowned spiders, on a shelf above my workbench.

At night, the garage smells sharp and sweet. I hear faint tapping against the glass.

Yesterday, I woke to find greasy fingerprints on my bedroom door.

This morning, the jar was empty.

And the toolbox was open. Car repaired.