Arguyle ‘’Bootleg’’ McCullough peered through blurry eyes at the mechanical innards of the engine block. The dim neon overhead was the only source of light, making everything beyond a few feet into unrecognizable shadows. Despite knowing full well that he was already quite drunk, the mechanic reached for the bottle of whiskey standing precariously on the edge of his tool box and took a long pull. He hardly tasted the alcohol anymore, even if he did his best to find the oldest bottles. They were supposed to have a stronger flavor. All he cared about now was that the whiskey got him drunk.

He put the bottle down on the toolbox a bit more loudly that he would have liked to; the gesture reflecting some of his inner frustrations. The bottle did not break but the sound resonated throughout the quiet engine room. Arguyle did not hear it; working around noisy engines for so long at shot most of his ability to detect noises unless they were loud. He returned to his work. He did not have to hear to the hum of the engine to know that a fuel coupling was loose. He could hear it in the vibrations, something only someone who spent all of his days near the engine could have discerned.

This late at night all of the other crew members were alseep. Bootleg never slept more than an hour or two at a time. He felt fatigue like anyone else but he knew his dreams would be filled with memories he refused to live again. Whiskey kept him awake, his own personal savior.

‘’El Gaspacho?’’ A feminine voice said, from behind him followed by a musical giggle. The voice was filled with mirth, the voice of a young woman. Arguyle smirked but tried his best to hide it. His sister always ‘’appeared’’ to him only when he was drunk, it was the real reason why he did his best to take in more than his share of booze each day. Everyone simply thought he had trouble letting go of the bottle. Arguyle knew he had trouble letting go of his sister.

Arianne McCullough died almost ten years ago, due to the greediness of her husband, the form