She nodded.
I continued.
"But proud."
Her expression softened.
She looked toward the gallery.
For a moment, she seemed relieved.
Then she explained that several schools had already requested educational visits.
The museum hoped to use the exhibition to encourage students interested in engineering, restoration, and technical history.
I smiled.
My father would've loved that.
He never cared whether a person could afford an expensive car.
If a teenager showed genuine curiosity about machinery, he would stop what he was doing and explain how it worked.
Sometimes for hours.
Usually much longer than the teenager expected.
Now the Phoenix could continue teaching people, even in its damaged state.
That thought mattered more than I could explain.
The teenage neighbor attended the opening with his father.
He wore a navy button-down shirt and looked strangely uncomfortable among the collectors, historians, and museum supporters.
When he saw me, he smiled.
"Hey."
I laughed.
"Glad you made it."
He glanced toward the exhibit.
For a moment, his expression became serious.
Then he asked whether he could see the original chassis plate.
I nodded.
"Of course."
We walked toward the display.
He studied the plate carefully.
Then looked at the factory photograph.
"That's your dad?"
I smiled.
"That's him."
The boy nodded slowly.
For several seconds, he remained quiet.
Then he asked whether the car would've been famous if it survived.
I considered the question.
"Among people who study this kind of history, yes."
He looked toward the photograph.
Then whispered.
"I wish I'd gotten to see it at a show."
I smiled sadly.
"So do I."
For a moment, he seemed uncomfortable.
Then he looked toward me.
"I still have the video I made before they crushed it."
I nodded.
"I know."
He continued.
"I was thinking about making a proper documentary. Not about the woman or the truck. About the car."
My expression changed.
For several seconds, I studied him.
Then smiled.
"I think my father would've liked that."
The teenager's face brightened.
"Really?"
I nodded.
"Really."
He looked toward the display again.
Then asked whether he could interview me about the prototype's history.
I laughed softly.
"Sure."
His father smiled.
And for the first time, the idea of someone making a film about the Phoenix didn't fill me with dread.
The boy didn't want to turn the destruction into entertainment.
He wanted to tell the story of what made the car worth preserving.
That was the difference.
Over the following months, I helped establish a technical-history education program in my father's memory.