“Four hund-” began Jill, but was interrupted by Betsy’s exclamation: “Tallow?”

“Uh-huh.” Lars, having produced a handheld propane torch from the tool box, was twisting the knob. The torch began to hiss and he lit it with a cigarette lighter. “Y’see, this isn’t an internal combustion engine, it’s a steam engine, so the rules are different. She runs real hot, so you need a lubricant that can take it. He says you get used to the new rules, and they’re good ones, and real safe, only different. Dr. Fine says there’s people in Wisconsin who own Stanleys, and they can help me. Plus there’s a big club I’m gonna join, it’s international, so there’s a good support group.”

Jill remarked to the ceiling, “Unlike AA, these people help you stay with the sickness, not get clean.”

“What?” said Lars. Adjusting the flame of his torch, he hadn’t been paying attention.

“Nothing, nothing,” said Betsy, waving a shushing hand at Jill. “Go on, Lars.”

“Anyhow, this club can tell me where I can get the stuff I need to keep her running.” He put a big, caressing hand on the intact front fender, then went to the back of the car and turned a flat steel knob on a copper tank. Then he went to the front-Betsy and Jill following-and began playing the torch through a pair of silver-dollar-size holes at the base of the hood, which, Betsy suddenly noticed, was shaped like a fat oval, not flat on the sides like ordinary cars.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Getting the pilot light started.”

Betsy laughed uncertainly, but Lars said, “I have to get it hot before I can turn on the gasoline.”

After a few minutes, satisfied that the pilot light was operating properly, Lars got into the car. He opened another valve, then began to pump a long handle back and forth. “Getting the gasoline started,” he explained.