Minnie Winnie stood silently in a dark garage in Metropolis, her doors locked, her tanks empty, and her wheels covered; her only company being the family of mice that had taken up residence in her insulation. She was lonely, and sad.
She'd been so excited when she'd been presented to her charges. A family of four, two parents, two children. She was sleek and polished, her white and silver exterior gleaming. Her lavender and gray interior smelled fresh and new. She couldn't wait to take them on adventures and see the world.
And she had, at first. They'd traveled extensively that first summer, sometimes with the purple father, sometimes without. (He was running for office. She didn't understand why she couldn't drive him instead.) She took the family to caves and mountains. They visited lakes and grand rivers. She keep them safe and warm, and her insides were filled with laughter and love.
But then winter came, and school started. She'd been told that she'd only been in the garage until the next summer, when they'd be off again on more merry travels. True to the blue father's word, he came for her when the weather warmed, and he and the children went on a few trips, but not very far from home. The purple father never came. He had an illness called "Mayor", and she worried for his well being.
Minnie did her best to entertain the blue father and the children in the purple father's absence. Laughter and love filled her insides once more as she carried them to the woods and streams. When winter came, she did not fret at being placed in the garage once again, to wait for her family's return when the weather warmed.
But the weather had warmed, and cooled, and warmed again, and she was still waiting. She hoped nothing had happened to them. She hoped they were happy and well, and simply too busy to go on trips. She hoped that one day, morning would dawn, the garage door would open, and there they would be.
She hoped she hadn't been forgotten.