It's Otis who finds them. He sputters to a stop at the top of a hill and coasts his way down it until his face slams against the edge of Storm's trailer.
"Ouch!" he exclaims. Then he takes stock of what he's run into–the trailer, askance; Gale, with one set of tires just a limp collection of jagged rubber streamers; Storm, parked beside her.
"Boy are you lucky you ran into me!" says Otis, amicably.
"You can't be serious," replies Storm.
But Otis is serious, because he's always serious about these kinds of things. Otis breaks down like clockwork, and Mater should be along any time now to come pick him up. Mater'll know what to do about these out-of-towners, too.
These out of towners, it turns out, had been sitting in the desert for a while. A few miles back, Gale had intuited something strange–what, she couldn't tell, but the premonition was strong enough that she'd left the Interstate and slowed way down. But the premonition turned rapidly into a problem and there, straddling the distance between I-40 and whatever stretch of 66 this was, her tire rolled its last wobbly, oblong track. And then it was gone.
Storm should have gone for help. Gale told him as much. But he refused.
It wasn't cruelty, or laziness. He played it off as loyalty–not wanting to leave her behind to the unknown–but Gale knows that Storm doesn't quite have it in him to believe in that. Maybe one day, but not now. He's too new, too drawn in the lines to have that kind of spirited conviction. After all, he'd only just mastered the one–the desire to win–and even that's still got that new car smell to it.
She tells him that if he doesn't go find help, he's going to miss his race. His first race. But even that can't move him.
Gale looks off at the horizon, squinting for the outline of a town she hopes is out there somewhere. But the wind is up, and so is the dust, and all she can see is haze. Again, Storm says, "No."
His body betrays nothing, and his expression never wavers, but it's terror that holds him there–even if he doesn't know that's what it is, isn't familiar enough with the feeling to identify it. He's scared of the desert, because he doesn't know deserts; he's scared of things not going according to plan. He's scared of being alone.
"Ray told me I needed to stick with you," Storm reasons aloud. "I'm not going to leave you, Gale."
Storm sounds like loyalty but isn't; he is fear, but doesn't look it.
"You're going to miss your race. Do you understand that?" Gale asks, for the last time.
"I don't care."
And because Gale is Gale, she resolves to let him ride this out. She believes that if you're young enough to crash and burn and get right back up and learn from it, then far be it from her to stunt that growth. If this ends Storm's career as a racer before it's properly begun, he's young enough to find something else to do. Maybe he'll need to learn the hard way.
But along comes Otis, and soon enough, the tow truck he promised. In the span of one introduction from Mater-like-tuhmater-but-without-the-tuh, Storm shifts from quiet terror to deep mistrust to obvious displeasure.
"Yep, my friend Luigi can get you fixed up, no problem! He's got all kinds a' tires, he's got–" Mater explains at length, hiking Otis up into the air every time he swings his tow cable around for emphasis.
Storm fixes Mater with an absolutely withering glare, but the tow truck's enthusiasm is impervious.
"Tell you what, I gotta get Otis over to Ramone's back in town, and I can't exactly tow your friend here. But if you just wanna sit tight I got a good guess about what you need and I can just come back and–"
"I'll go with you," Storm interrupts tersely. "I know what kind of tires she needs. I can pay."
Storm doesn't trust Mater within an inch of him. He doesn't trust Mater's memory, he doesn't trust his guesses, and he certainly isn't ready to stake his and Gale's lives on the reliability of some deranged, backwater tow truck. Whatever his other terrors, the terror of placing trust in this guy is far stronger. "I'll go," he says.
Mater beams. "Always happy to get to know a Route 66-er," he says. "But shoot, we can talk more on the road!"
They can talk a lot more. The road is rough, far rougher than anything Storm's ever felt beneath him. He takes it at a crawl.
It's mortifying.
He's not used to roads like this.
"Well, here's the road," says Mater, playing tour guide. Ten miles and almost an hour later, Mater says, "And here's more of the same road."
Mater has been obligingly matching Storm's pace. It's a constant modification, his mind leaping forward and his whole body set to bound across the desert like he usually does–before he remembers to reign it in.
Suffice to say, treading bottleneck-slow into town is not one of Mater's favorite things in the world. But he perseveres.
"You know, I could probably listen to your whole life story before we even hit the outskirts," he says, which is for Mater a silver lining and to Storm sounds like a death threat.
"Probably," says Storm. "It's short." He gives Gale's receding silhouette one last glance as he takes a particularly jagged piece of road sideways. The road into town is old, and desperately needs to be re-paved.
"I'm all ears," says Mater. "Well, windows, mostly. But–"
"Once upon a time, the end," says Storm.
That's the most they ever get out of Storm. He doesn't speak to anyone. Not to Flo, who offers him a cool drink that he does not accept.
"It's not poisoned, honey," she jibes, riffing off the suspicion vivid on Storm's face.
Not to Ramone and Red, who offer a complimentary wash and wax to their dusty newcomer.
Not to Lizzie, who freely offers her own hypothesis as to his identity–Arab sheikh. For all Radiator Springs knows, Storm is Middle Eastern royalty. He has the build, and he's definitely busy acting like this whole life is a government secret.
"What's your business here?" Sarge asks. It's not an interrogation, but it is.
"Leaving, ideally," says Storm, all acid. The tire guys were taking their time sifting through their inventory in the back. Apparently it's not often rigs like Gale drop in off the Interstate, and the truck tires are in deep storage.
"Mack always brings his own, for some reason," muses Sally. "Something about rubber sensitivities. I don't know." She's talking more to the town at large than to Storm. She's the only one who hasn't tried to push anything on him.
She seems distracted.
"They were supposed to leave an hour ago," Storm overhears her whisper to the Sheriff. "If they can't find the tires easily, just make this guy wait! Lightning's expecting them. He needs–"
"Lightning?" Storm asks.
"McQueen," Sally clarifies. She flushes; she hadn't meant for this stranger to hear all that. "There's a Piston Cup race at Copper Canyon today. Uh, down in Phoenix."
Storm's aware.
"Lightning… McQueen lives here?" he says slowly.
Mater is only too happy to confirm. "He sure does! Well, when he's not Piston Cup racing and all. He's my best bud! Didn't you see the billboard?"
Storm hadn't. He'd been too busy staring at the ground, daring its horrible, uneven surface to sabotage him. But when he looks around at all these cars, he could choke on their sentimentality.
They're all so proud of him. They're all so proud Lightning McQueen.
The whole dumb town.
Storm's jaw tenses.
Eventually, Guido and Luigi locate the tires Gale needs, and the Sheriff gamely police-escorts their party back to Gale's resting spot.
"Never did catch your name, stranger," says the Sheriff.
They pass the billboard again. Radiator Springs–racing headquarters of one Lightning McQueen, seven-time Piston Cup Champion. Every part of the sign has been freshly repainted, except for the seven. As though the artist expects that that number might change.
"Oh, you will," Storm assures him, and leaves it at that.
"How was your field trip?" asks Gale, once they're back on the road. The two Italians Storm brought back with him evidently had someplace to be, because they'd zipped off towards the Interstate well ahead of her.
"I hate that town," says Storm.
"They seemed friendly," Gale counters, his Devil's advocate.
"That's their problem," says Storm.
Gale wishes she could get Storm face to face right then. Look him in the eyes. Not that it would change much, she supposes; Storm has a wicked gift for appearing illegible.
But being and appearing are not the same thing. "It'll come," she assures him. "You'll find your place."
"First," says Storm. His place is first place. That's all that matters.
Gale thinks it's a stupid answer, but Storm is not the first racecar she's hauled. They all say that.
Because he's her favorite, Gale assures him again. "It'll come if you let it. Trust me."
Maybe one day, he will. And perhaps the next, he will listen.
For now, they head to Copper Canyon.