A few simply loved cars and wanted to learn how to maintain their own vehicles.
The director was planning a fundraising event and wondered whether Isaiah would consider displaying the yellow Mustang.
Isaiah smiled when he read the invitation.
For a moment, he remembered Dylan standing in his driveway with his hand extended, demanding the keys.
The contrast was striking.
This invitation didn't claim authority over his property.
It didn't threaten fines.
And it didn't suggest that refusing would make him a bad neighbor.
It simply asked.
Isaiah called the director.
"I'd be happy to bring it."
The woman sounded delighted.
"Really?"
"Yes. I'll transport it myself, and I'd like to talk with the students about the restoration."
"That would be wonderful."
Isaiah paused.
"There's one condition."
The director became quiet.
"Of course."
He smiled.
"My niece gets to help polish it before the show."
The woman laughed.
"I think we can arrange that."
The fundraiser took place on a beautiful Saturday morning.
Dozens of vehicles lined the grounds of the automotive training center. There were classic American muscle cars, restored pickup trucks, older motorcycles, and several student projects that were still in progress.
Isaiah arrived early.
He drove the yellow Mustang carefully into its assigned display space and parked beside a small table holding photographs from the restoration.
His father appeared in several of them.
One showed Harold standing beside the rusted car shortly after purchasing it.
Another captured him beneath the open hood, laughing while Isaiah held a wrench.
A third showed the nearly completed Mustang sitting outside the old workshop beneath the afternoon sun.
Isaiah placed a small sign on the table.
Restored by Harold Reed and his son.
Nothing more.
He didn't list the car's estimated market value.
Didn't describe it as a rare investment opportunity.
And didn't ask visitors to admire how much money he'd spent.
The photographs told the story he cared about.
At nine-thirty, his mother arrived with Sophie.
The little girl came running across the grass wearing a yellow T-shirt.
Then she stopped in front of Isaiah.
Her eyes moved toward his shorts.
He was wearing the navy-blue Minions shorts again.
Sophie burst out laughing.
"Uncle! You wore them!"
Isaiah grinned.
"Of course I did."
She looked toward the car.
"Can I help?"
He handed her a clean cloth.
"You're in charge of the chrome."
She nodded seriously.
Then began polishing the same section she'd cleaned months earlier.
Isaiah watched her.