. . .
In the quiet maze of suburbia, where lawns were trimmed and curfews ruled the night, three dudes grew up chasing the same dream — freedom on four wheels. The Trio grew up under the same shimmering uptown lights and the same rule
— if one got in trouble, all got in trouble.  
They were inseparable. From learning to walk in the same breezeway to the first day of elementary, they were just best friends. They built forts before they could spell their own names. By middle school, they were already known to be technical scholars in advance classes, AVID Programs, The Right Thing, and Jr. Achievements...
— Although intrigued to learn and score high, they didn't quite fit in well with the underachievers and often fought in self-defense together as one. Bouncing from class to class, taking knowledge with them.  They called themselves the YardDawgs — Slice, Cut, and Chop. Three mischievous pre‑teens with minds that worked faster than engines. They weren’t just smart — they were builders, the kind of kids who could turn a pile of scrap into something that moved, hummed, and shined. 
  
Slice - Cut - Chop
Three names whispered like a cool breeze around Harbor Springs, by older street racers and enthusiasts, Why? because the grind is real
Slice — the strategist in red, quick‑thinking and sharper than his nickname.
Cut — the builder in yellow, calm but unstoppable once the tools hit his hands.
Chop — the organizer in the baseball jersey, wiz with a photographic memory.

All week, they were regular teens — scholastic, curious, sometimes bored, homework, science fairs, and the occasional detention.. But when Friday hit, the textbooks closed and the gates of Harbor Springs Junk Yard opened to them.

Harbor Springs Junk Yard, a sprawling graveyard of rusted cars and forgotten stories. The old owner, Mr. Will, knew them well — three pint‑sized hustlers never late and dedicated to their craft. He’d watch them crawl through wrecks, engine bays and under frames, pulling parts faster than any grown mechanic using PPE could, no matter what they were on. Their size wasn’t a weakness — it was their secret weapon. They could slip between stacks of cars, reach bolts others couldn’t, and salvage treasures from the tightest corners; under the supervision of an acclaimed Junk dealer, who selected the trio through a college prep/ work program at the school...

Every weekend and sometimes afterschool, they would motorbike across town in traffic weaving and dodging to get to "HSJY" dreaming of the day they’d down the highway, not just push them across the yard or... As for the aging owner, he never hesitated in doing all he could for them in his time. He' often hide rare parts for them to find, and wish them good luck as he left them there to lockup ...
They earned real money intern-working with the aging owner — pulling parts, sorting metal, and learning the language of machines. Every dollar went into their secret project: a monster machine they were building piece by piece behind the yard’s far fence; against policies, from scraps. The eldest is only weeks away from his learner’s permit, and the countdown had begun. The Dawgs could already feel the wind, the speed, the roar of engines that would soon be theirs.

When the sun dipped behind the stacked cars, the junkyard came alive. Sparks flew, metal clanged, and laughter echoed through the rows. Three silhouettes moved like shadows — Slice, Cut, and Chop — the Yard Dawgs. Bound by friendship, fueled by curiosity, and driven by the promise of freedom.  Suburbia saw them as mischievous pre‑teens, The underground car world saw them as prospects coming up; even future competition --  The YardDawgs aka YDS were already building their future — one bolt, one spark, one dream at a time.