"Even if you fix it, it won't be the same. I don't want it any more."
"But it is still beautiful."
"No, it is ugly, broken, cracked. I won't even touch it. Do whatever you want with it."
"But... it works just fine."
"The looks, do you understand? The looks are important. Can you imagine I take it for a walk?"
"Yes, I certainly can."
"Then, take it, it is all yours."
"Does 'it' have a name?"
That was 25 years ago. She left the emergency room, drunk, drugged. She was not sure if the conversation happened like that. Most probably it did not, but that was what she had remembered. She was sure only about one thing. She left her son there, with a bleeding knee and a broken finger and left. When she sobered up and returned, there was no emergency room, no nurse, no doctors, no ambulances. Just a derelict empty depot.