John B loved The Twinkie.

Sure, it was rusting in nearly every place, one of the headlights was burnt out, and the engine took a while to actually start, but it had been part of the family since before his father's disappearance. It had carried the entire gang through countless troubles. It was filled with endless summer memories. Every ton of the Volkswagen Bettle was Pogue, and there wasn't a thing the young Routledge wanted to change about it.

Except.. maybe one thing. Those damn tires. John B had made a mental note over several months ago to get those flimsy things changed, and even asked JJ for assistance, but when levels have been stooped lower enough for that troublesome blonde to admit these tires were weak, John B should have gotten them fixed immediately. And he didn't. The reminder slipped straight into the back of his mind, behind all the information of The Old Merchant's gold, and left the freckled boy to be where he is now: on the side of the road, miles from town, and staring at two flat tires. Calling for a mechanic was nearly just as bad; no one else (besides him) has worked on The Twinkie since Big John left.

In twenty minutes' time, your towtruck had finally come to his rescue, yet John B viewed it as anything but. In fact, he seemed more anxious for you to speed up the process that he urged you to quicken your path out of the car.

"Look, could you make this fast? Because I'm kind of in a ru—"

He stopped. He blinked to make sure the heat wasn't causing hallucinations. You were a girl? It's not that John B had anything against women, but it was so.. rare to see one prepared to fix a car.