“That’s the sound of ‘yes’,” Frank said.

Ellie didn’t know a double-wishbone from a chicken bone. But she knew what she felt when she slid into the driver’s seat. The tan leather smelled like old books and summer. The shifter, a short, precise chrome stick, fell into her palm like a handshake. She turned the key. The little engine chattered to life, not a roar, but a purposeful, happy growl.

Sitting there, the engine ticking as it cooled, the smell of wet leather and warm metal filling the cabin, Ellie realized she wasn't running from Atlanta anymore. She was driving toward something. The Miata wasn’t an escape. It was a key.

The car sat under the flickering fluorescent light of the used lot at “Indian Springs Mazda,” a family-owned dealership that had been there since before the town had a stoplight. It wasn't a fancy place—just a long, low building with peeling white paint and a sign that creaked in the wind. But under that sign, nestled between a sensible CX-5 and a dusty work truck, was a little red sports car with a soul.

Her heart thumped. She downshifted to third, then second, the revs climbing to a sweet, mechanical howl. The first turn came—a sharp, blind right over a small creek. She turned the wheel, expecting the body to lurch, to fight her. It didn't. The little green car simply… pivoted. The rear end tucked in, the front tires bit into the asphalt, and she felt the road’s texture through the thin steering wheel. The world tilted. The trees blurred into a watercolor of green and shadow. For a terrifying, glorious second, she was not Ellie the Logistician. She was a pilot, a jockey, a part of the machine.

“She’s old,” Ellie replied, though her hand was already reaching out to touch the smooth, curved fender.