An hour later, a flatbed truck rumbled down the palm-lined street. The driver, a man named Jax whose skin looked like weathered leather, hopped out with a clipboard. He didn't see a scrap heap; he saw an afternoon’s work. He circled the car, checking the VIN and the catalytic converter with the practiced eye of a diamond appraiser.
Elias leaned against his porch railing, squinting at the "We Buy Junk Cars" flyer he’d pulled from his mailbox. To most, the car was an eyesore—a jagged collection of oxidized metal and sun-bleached upholstery. To him, it was a headache he couldn’t afford to tow. we buy junk cars pompano beach
"She’s seen a lot of Atlantic salt air, huh?" Jax chuckled, wiping grease from his forehead. An hour later, a flatbed truck rumbled down