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Filled with laugh-out-loud hilarious text and cartoons, the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series follows Greg Heffley as he records the daily trials and triumphs of friendship, family life and middle school where undersized weaklings have to share the hallways with kids who are taller, meaner and already shaving! On top of all that, Greg must be careful to avoid the dreaded CHEESE TOUCH!
The first book in the series was published in 2007 and became instantly popular for its relatable humor. Today, more than 300 million copies have been sold around the world!
"Everywhere," Clara choked out. "My dad and I... we drove it to every state park on the East Coast. He passed away last month. I can't keep it. The repairs cost more than I make in a year, and every time I turn the key, I expect to hear his voice in the passenger seat. It’s too heavy to carry."
Miller leaned against a stack of tires, chewing on a piece of straw. "I buy 'em all, girl. But I don't pay for the metal. I pay for what’s left inside."
"I heard you buy cars," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Even the ones that don't want to live anymore."
At Miller’s, cars didn't just go to die. They went to be remembered by the only man who knew how to read the dented chrome and the stained upholstery. He sat on the bumper of Clara’s car, watched the sun set over the rusted horizon, and whispered a quiet "thank you" to the ghosts in the backseat.
Old Man Miller didn’t just run a junkyard; he curated a graveyard of broken dreams. "Miller’s Auto Salvage" sat at the end of a gravel road that the local map seemed to have forgotten, a sprawling labyrinth of rusted steel and shattered glass. Most people saw a mess, but Miller saw stories.
Get ready to see the Wimpy Kid world in a whole new way! Written and illustrated from the hilarious imagination of Greg Heffley’s best friend, Rowley Jefferson, the Awesome Friendly Kid series is filled with new adventures and vibrant stories that will have readers in stitches!
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junkyard that will buy your car
"Everywhere," Clara choked out. "My dad and I... we drove it to every state park on the East Coast. He passed away last month. I can't keep it. The repairs cost more than I make in a year, and every time I turn the key, I expect to hear his voice in the passenger seat. It’s too heavy to carry."
Miller leaned against a stack of tires, chewing on a piece of straw. "I buy 'em all, girl. But I don't pay for the metal. I pay for what’s left inside."
"I heard you buy cars," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Even the ones that don't want to live anymore."
At Miller’s, cars didn't just go to die. They went to be remembered by the only man who knew how to read the dented chrome and the stained upholstery. He sat on the bumper of Clara’s car, watched the sun set over the rusted horizon, and whispered a quiet "thank you" to the ghosts in the backseat.
Old Man Miller didn’t just run a junkyard; he curated a graveyard of broken dreams. "Miller’s Auto Salvage" sat at the end of a gravel road that the local map seemed to have forgotten, a sprawling labyrinth of rusted steel and shattered glass. Most people saw a mess, but Miller saw stories.
