He led the lost racers—a grumpy minivan, a hyperactive hybrid, and a vintage Beetle—through back alleys and forgotten service roads. He wasn’t fast, but he was smooth. He guided them with calm authority, his old engine humming a steady rhythm.
That night, Moxie towed him back to the museum. But as she left, she saw his headlights flicker on—not from a jump, but from something warmer.
He was ready for the next call.
Sterling coughed. “Kid, my battery hasn’t held a charge since McQueen was a rookie. I’m a ghost.”
