It really was like piloting a jet down the highway.

Michael pressed down on the gas, listening to the distinctive whir of the engine pick up in response. He felt just a hint of the power concealed beneath the hood as the rapid acceleration pushed him back in his seat. The digital speedometer raced upward. The numbers rolled past one another, the red figures blurring in time with the increasingly smeary scenery outside the car. He zoomed by a little puddle—a pond?-and a fence that was probably chain link but trickled together to appear like a solid wall.

The road stretched on ahead of him, straight and deserted, and he rocketed into Pursuit. The tires streaked along the pavement. The car cruised low to the ground. For a second, it seemed there was nothing between Michael and the sun-baked cement, like he was gliding on a water slide. Exhilaration lifted his spirits to dizzying heights. He let loose an enthusiastic whoop, sure that at any moment the wheels would lift off, and he would be soaring through the cloudless sky.

Maybe on his way to some space mission, investigating a bunch of Martian embezzlers. He glanced at all the blinking lights and switches and other techno-junk crowding around the driver's seat. A trip to another planet wouldn't surprise him, actually. It already felt like he'd crossed over to a separate universe.

Instead of blast-off, Michael realized he was approaching a sharp turn. There wasn't much time between spotting it and having to deal with it at his current speed. He stomped at the brake. The car screeched but slowed—quicker than he would have thought possible.

A wave of paranoia hit. Was the pedal already depressed before he stepped on it? He inspected the dashboard, making sure nothing that said auto-anything was lit up.

Auto Cruise remained dark.

"Better not have done anything," he muttered. "I am the only one driving this car."

He tried to grab a top section of the steering wheel that did not exist in his distraction, causing the vehicle to swerve off the road briefly as he hurried to catch the separated portions that were there.

A creepy, disembodied voice—a voice that Michael had hoped never to hear again—responded.

"Of course I didn't do anything. I wouldn't dream of being so careless."

Michael pointedly turned up the radio. You can't dream.

It couldn't, right?

Whatever. He was determined to drown it out. A car that could talk. He thought back on what Devon had told him and shook his head. A car that could think. Old man Wilton had to have been a few cards short of a deck when he decided "conversational" was a necessary feature for a four-wheeled, gas-guzzling machine. Okay, it was fuel efficient, but the fact remained that there wasn't a thing on it to suggest it needed to speak.

Cars didn't have mouths, for instance. A flashing bulb here, a chiming alarm there, and his previous Trans Am let him know when it was on empty or he left the keys in the ignition without any problems. This thing had more than enough gizmos to communicate via light show. The knowledge that it was aware of what he just said and the mistake he just made was too bizarre. It was uncanny and invasive. Was it watching him, listening to him, all the time?

Michael kept the music loud. He fished his sunglasses out of the pocket of his leather jacket and slipped them on, shielding his eyes from whatever cameras were tucked away within the interior. Then he sat back, laid on the gas, and tried to forget about it.

It worked, for a few miles. Unfortunately he was heading into a more populated area and had to be content cruising at a sedate sixty-five. Traffic increased. He was sandwiched between a semi and a pickup truck before long, the open horizon eclipsed by a dingy trailer and a pair of half-busted taillights. One of them glowed weakly as he approached an intersection, warning Michael that the traffic light he could no longer see in front of them must have turned red.

He glanced at the driver side mirror while he waited to go. There was a beagle sticking its head out the window of the pickup behind him, its pink tongue drooping from its frothy jaws, and he smirked at the drool dribbling down the glass and onto the truck's body. The change in expression shifted his focus from the dog to the stranger in the mirror. His reflection looked pretty darn great for a guy who took a bullet to the face, but it didn't look like his face, and he wondered if he would ever be able to feel like those unfamiliar features belonged to him. His eyes weren't even brown anymore, for hell's sake.

"Mr. Knight, the light turned green precisely seventeen seconds ago." The unnerving voice piped up out of nowhere. "Is there a reason for the delay?"

Michael jumped. "Gees!"

Before the car could tell him that now the light had been green for eighteen seconds, the driver of the pickup sent the same exact message by honking their horn.

Michael got moving, clenching the steering… thing a lot tighter than necessary. It seemed crazy to direct his aggravation at the dash. "Yeah, there's a reason. The reason is because I felt like it. And that better be enough for you, cos' I sure don't plan on having to justify every little hiccup."

"Understood, Mr. Knight."

"My name's Long." The correction came without a thought, and Michael had already realized his error by the time the car started to answer.

"Well, yes, but since that identity no longer exists—"

"Yeah, I got it. Nevermind." He couldn't help picturing the real Mr. Knight, telling him he was going to be the man that made a difference just before passing away in his bed. Knight and Long were both dead now. "Look, just—just call me Michael, alright?"

"Of course, Michael."

He hoped it would seem less creepy if the talking car used his real name, but its voice sounded so disturbingly pleasant, it had the opposite effect. It might have been paranoia again, but he could have sworn the tone was warmer—like the car was glad to be invited to speak to him in more familiar terms. A flare of irritation heated his skin. It was not an invitation to speak in any way, and cars had no business being glad.

"You know what? Don't call me anything," he snapped. "I said I wasn't gonna drive around in a motormouth car, and I meant it. You mind your own beeswax and can it!"

The only noise was the spiel of the advertisements on the radio for a beat. It was just long enough to catch a hint of the same tired "saving big with low, low prices" crap, then the volume dropped.

"A highly unusual request. However, seeing as I'm not equipped with any beeswax, I can do nothing of the kind."

Micheal laughed, basking in resentful satisfaction. The fastest, safest, strongest car in the world was still pretty stupid. "It means shut up and leave me alone, tinker toy."

"Very well."

The radio commercials came back at full blast. Michael tried to relax and concentrate on the road, but what he really wanted was to get out of the car as soon as possible. He considered it a small blessing when the next sign he passed indicated there were a couple recognizable restaurants close by. Fumbling around for the turn signal—all the wild gadgetry obscured some of the car's basic functions—he took the next exit. It seemed like the ideal opportunity to stretch his legs, grab some grub, and test out the brand new credit cards under his brand new name.

Michael Knight probably looked like a guy who would have a nervous break down over which socks to put on each morning.

He didn't actually give a rat's foot about what he was buying, let alone his socks, but he had circled the tiny convenience store at least four times now, and the two employees were starting to give him funny looks. He acted like he was oblivious to their scrutiny, coming to a halt in front of a refrigerated section to peer at the drinks behind the glass. There wasn't much variety. The best he could do was snag a cold bottle of off-brand cola and surrender to the inevitable.

It was time to check out. Now that he was approaching the counter, he realized the woman working the register was sort of attractive in a holding-hands-at-the-hometown-fair kind of way. He smiled in apology and added a roll of Life Savers to his one other purchase in an attempt to make his time in the store seem more productive. He would have sprung for a bigger snack, but he just finished eating at the place next door, and their burgers were huge and worth every bite.

The cashier smiled back, seeming amused. "Find everything okay?"

"I'm all set. Thanks."

"There's a park up the street with a decent-sized running track."

He raised an eyebrow. "You think I look like a runner?"

"You seem kinda restless." She rang up his stuff, her movements as swift and exacting as any professional athlete. While he paid (no problem with the credit cards), she glanced wistfully out the window next to her station. Then her eyes went wide. "Oh, wow, poor guy. Must have lost his keys to the car."

Michael turned around so fast, he almost went down on the red and gold checked floor. He didn't know why her relatively ordinary assumption spooked him so much, except that what she was looking at was some incident involving the car, which sent his mind careening toward a mountain of sleek, black, autonomous disasters. Fortunately the view from the window was of a half-occupied parking lot, containing a bunch of vehicles that weren't Trans Ams. He released a breath, relieved but also mad at himself.

This thing was going to drive him straight to crazy if he let it. There were other cars in the world. Hundreds of thousands of other cars. Besides, he reasoned, he left that car by the restaurant, and it wasn't even visible from here.

If it had stayed in the spot where he parked it.

"Sir? Do you want a bag?"

"Sounds good," he mumbled absently.

He had noticed the guy that concerned the cashier and was now watching him with interest. The man appeared to be mid-to-late forties, white, average height, medium build, with peppery graying hair and an uneven mustache. It was instinctual to size him up like a suspect, though Michael didn't see any definite sign he was committing a crime. There was just something off about the way he was examining what was presumably his own Mercedes. He wasn't looking down or pacing the parking lot, as he should have been, if he was searching for dropped keys. He seemed a lot more intrigued with what was inside the car, and he stood stock still, peering into the passenger window.

Michael realized then that the woman working the register was holding a bag out to him, waiting for him to take it.

"Do you want this, or…?" She was giving him a strange look, either because she had been holding the bag for awhile, or because he said he wanted a bag for some candy and a soda when he had perfectly good pockets and hands.

"Keep it for me for a minute, would ya? I'm going to see if that guy outside needs some help."

"Ah, okay, but—"

The door jangled shut behind him. The wind was picking up. There was a chill in the air, even as sunlight continued to beat down on the asphalt. If this guy was planning to try something, he was an idiot. A thief might as well steal under a spotlight on stage if they were willing to perform their dirty work midday in front of multiple businesses.

Michael stepped off the curb and began to stroll through the rows of cars. He kept it casual, making it a point to pull out his sunglasses so he could toy with them as he approached. He flipped the arms open, then closed, then open again in effort to strike up a relaxed, seemingly unconscious rhythm. Nothing you see here. Just a good old bored samaritan passing through.

The guy heard him coming and looked over. His eyes looked like they were deprived of a few hours' sleep.

"Hi," Michael called out. "Car trouble?"

He went a little stiff, but his expression was friendly, open to conversation. "Nope. Wife trouble."

"Really? Well, who isn't a sucker for a lady in red?" Michael nodded at the Mercedes's gleaming paint job. He didn't allow himself to wonder whether that terrible joke would have occurred to him a few weeks ago.

The guy humored him with a chuckle. The tips of his teeth showed when he laughed, yellow edges exposed beneath his mustache. "My wife wanted me to get her purse, but, you know, once I got out here, I was thinking, she's still got the damn keys on her."

Michael moved to stand beside him and bent, hands on his legs, to see in the window. Sure enough, there was a purse in plain sight, sitting right on the seat. "Huh. You know, she really shouldn't leave that where anybody can see it. It's like a written invitation to low-lifes looking to score easy cash." He glanced sideways.

There was no sign of discomfort or agitation. The guy was cool and steady as a slab of stone.

"You mind telling her that? I tell her myself all the time, but she don't hear the half of what I say."

"Is that right?" Michael straightened up with a shrug. "It'd be no problem at all for me to wait for you to get her."

"Naw, I was kidding. You go on getting on with your day." The guy started to walk away, pausing to add, "Thanks, though. Good to see there are still people like you out there."

"Sure thing."

Michael watched the guy disappear into the Italian restaurant he had opted not to eat at earlier, feeling dissatisfied. He didn't know why. There was no concrete reason for him to doubt anything he'd been told. There was just a twisting in his gut that wouldn't go away. His time in the police force taught him how valuable gut feelings could be, but—

Blood seeping through an electrician uniform. His partner, dead, abandoned. The night sky, the gunfire. The sound of the bullet in his head, striking metal, pulverizing bone. The tail of an asteroid shredding its way out of his face.

Tanya.

He knew his instincts could be way off the mark too. Everything the guy said and did seemed to suggest this was one of those times. The fact was he was wrong, and he needed to brush it off and take the guy's advice and get on with the day.