“She’ll run,” Jake said. “She just needs to remember how.”

Somewhere a mile away, tires squealed. Late-night racers. Jake grinned, tapped ash onto the concrete, and turned back to the manifold.

Jake lit a cigarette, the orange flare catching the grease on his knuckles. Smoke curled up through the beam of his drop light, twisting slow as ghosts.

Another drag. The smoke hung in the cold November air, mixing with the smell of burned oil, old gas, and rust. Outside, the highway hummed. Inside, nothing moved except the haze.