My car died last month. The one that crossed this whole country with me. The mechanic said she had two weeks. A man at the parts store heard me and said, "Give her a warrior's death. Enter her in the derby." The demolition derby. Cars smash each other until one still moves. I thought he was joking. He was not joking. So on Saturday I drove my old car into a county fair arena, painted a rising sun on her door, and put her in front of three thousand people eating fried dough. The announcer gave her a name. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN — THE SAMURAI SEDAN." The crowd adopted us immediately. A woman in the front row held up a sign that said BANZAI. She had made it that morning. For me. A stranger. The whistle blew. I will not describe the battle. I will only say that she took eleven hits, spun twice, lost a door, and kept moving, and that I have never been inside anything so loud in my life, including the war. She died at last with her nose against the wall, steam rising, one headlight still on. The crowd was on its feet. For her. For a car. I climbed out the window, because the door was gone, and I stood on her hood, and I pressed her horn one last time. It still worked. Every engine in the arena revved back at once. Three thousand people, roaring at a dead sedan and the man standing on it. I bowed to them. Then I bowed to her. She crossed this country with me. She did not deserve a junkyard. She deserved eleven hits, a sign that said BANZAI, and three thousand people on their feet. She got all of it. I kept the hood ornament. It is on my desk now. It still smells like steam.