lightning in a bottle
She watched his face, trying to catch the angles. Something was happening, and it wasn’t about the car. “’Sixty-seven,” she said.
“I paid for it working summer jobs.
It was pretty much the first real thing I ever bought by myself.” “You were eighteen, right?” “Seventeen.” “That’s right. Seventeen.
Preacher’s daughter.” He whistled. “Lightning in a bottle.” “Something like that.”
She didn’t mention the rest: that she’d bought the car two weeks after Adrian Wall stopped her from jumping to her death in the cold, black waters of the quarry; that she would drive it for hours on end; that for more years than she cared to count, it was the only good thing in her life.
“What’s with all the questions, Charlie?”
What does lightning in a bottle mean?