Author's Note: Thank you for being patient again! I just want to make a few notes here! A couple of readers messaged me and asked me if I would be writing new chapters. I promise I'm not going to abandon the story like I did when I hadn't written a chapter for years. That will not happen again; I can assure you. c:

Next note is that since the chapter takes place in the 80's, you can bet a lot of it was inspired by music from the decade. I will be adding all of the songs referenced in the chapter to the story's soundtrack playlist on Spotify. You'll find a couple of other 80's references in here too. c;

And as always, thank you for reading! Please leave a review if you've enjoyed this chapter or if you're enjoying the story so far! You don't have to, but it'd sure be cool if you did. c:

You should totally be part of the fun on my Instagram: artby0lemons0

I always post sneak peeks and extras. C:

Chapter 36 - "For the Longest Time"

Around the roaring campfire, the students leaned in as if it would improve how well they could listen to the Firebird. Since Mack excused himself, Hammer was able to scoot into the extra room to get closer.

Lutum narrowed his eyes. He quickly shot back to his spot and put his tire up on Hammer's bumper, "YOU WATCH IT. I WAS HERE FIRST."

Hammer pulled his upper lip into a snarl, "Get your filthy tire off of me."

"I AM CLEAN."

"ShhHHHhh," Luke glared at the Subaru, "Shut UP already."

"NO YOU SHUT UP."

"Both of you shut up," Murphy interrupted.

Luke scoffed, "My dear, Murphy," he smirked, "I can't hear you over the sound of your lips sucking on-"

"N-Nnn..," Jane pressed her tire into Murphy's tighter.

"I SAID YOU SHUT UP," Lutum shuffled around his bag of marshmallows and tossed one at Luke's grille. It lodged itself right in between the plastic.

Luke's eyes widened as he began to snort and gag.

"Ah, there we go," Murphy smiled.

Luke shut his eyes, pursed his lips, and shot it out into the fire. It landed right in the center and engulfed into a wall of flames.

Mister Springwheel sat there, watching the students buy him more time. Instead of cutting into their conversation as a teacher should, the more time they wasted, the less he needed to share.

"Be quiet! He's trying to tell us a campfire story!" Jane said.

The Impala grit his teeth at Jane while rubbing his nose with a tire, "YOU out of all the cars here, don't get to tell ME what to-"

Hammer pulled his truck horn rough and loud. The students all jumped up and turned their tires in. He eyed each and every one of them, who looked up at his height with their young beady little eyes.

"You brats done?" asked Hammer.

Together, the cars nodded.

"Good," Hammer gestured to the Firebird, "Mister Springwhe-erm...Phoenix...whenever you're ready."

He let out a sarcastic laugh, "I can't ever be ready, but-..uh...hm…"

Jane and Murphy had never seen their racing history teacher at a full stop. The car that would - on most days - never stop lecturing them, was at a loss for words.

He tried to find those right words to say by glancing at random objects around him and staring for a short while, "I mean…," his eyes trailed down the small creases in his hood all the way down to the decal of a Phoenix resting over the left metal plate where his headlights used to be, "My love for racing, I have to say, began way back when I used to watch old races on the television."

For just a moment, Springwheel looked up at Jane and Murphy, "One racer in particular. I mentioned her to you both in class before the time trials. I showed you a video," he quickly wet his fast drying lips, "I...took that video from my personal collection at home out of the many classic racing reels I own. You could say...I was hungry. Hungry for racing. But that racer, Janet Guthrie, was special. There weren't many female racers at the time. It was because she was different. That's all. I wanted to be different. I wanted to be a racer, but not just any racer who would grow old and fade into the books. I didn't want to be a number...I didn't-...want to be a statistic."

1981

Dear Miss Guthrie,

Or...missus Guthrie…? Are you a miss or a missus?

Okay.

Hi. I am Adam. I know your name is Janet, but I am going to call you Miss Guthrie. I am your biggest fan. I am only two and a half months old, but that is okay because I am going to be three months old in half of a month. I have been practicing my math.

I think you are really fast. You are faster than the boy cars and you look better too. I want to be just like you when I grow up except I don't want to be a girl because that would be very weird.

Mom and dad said that becoming a race car is hard. Is it hard to be a race car? It looks easy. They told me that they don't know how to raise a race car so I should go to college one day and dream another dream. They told me to be a doctor. I am always bumping into stuff trying to race like you. Mom and dad said if I am a doctor I can fix myself. But I don't want to be a doctor. I want to be a race car. They are cooler.

Can you tell the cars who own the race tracks to make me a race car? It would be very fun. Thank you.

Your Friend,

Adam Springwheel

P. S. I think you are pretty. How do you get shiny? Tell them I also want to be shiny like you please. Thank you.

Miami, Florida

1982

A new day dawned over the busiest highway in one of America's most tropical cities. The sky glowed a fiery red, getting ready to raise the heat and nourish the towering palm trees swaying in the ocean breeze. The salty sweet air could be found at every turn; in the deepest parts of downtown to the calmer outer neighborhoods. It hypnotized all who pulled it into their grilles. Nothing made them want to kick up the waves and feel the water get thrown around their tires more.

The neon lights in an array of colors were just beginning to shut off, signaling the end of Miami's wild nightlife. In the day, it was the sun's turn to shine and light up the city. That is, until the sun set again and started up the night owl automobiles all over again. The only remnants of the disco era came from tile floors in clubs that blinked checkered lights of all different kinds of unfashionable hues while the disco balls collected cobwebs overhead.

No matter what time of day, however, electric 80's hits spilled out of garage doors and into the asphalt all over the city; for the moonlight didn't decide when the parties began and the sunlight didn't decide when the parties ended.

With the attractive atmosphere and the ever growing amount of tourists came a sea of red tail lights outgoing and a wave of headlights incoming...but their tires stood very still.

Bumping bass from all of the cars listening to their own music could be heard between constant horn honking. A mixture of all billboard hits of the decade.

Lookin' out a dirty old window.
Down below, the cars in the city go rushin' by.

I sit here alone and I wonder why.

Here she comes now,

sayin', "Mony Mony".

And I'll be dancin' with myself.

Ah, ah, oh, oh.

Dancin' with myself.

They say in heaven love comes first,

we'll make heaven a place on earth.

Ooooh heaven is a place on Earth.

But only one car in particular, was especially unhappy.

A young green-eyed silver Pontiac Firebird, "Come oooon," he groaned, "MOVE IT. LET'S MOTOR."

"EAT MY SHORTSTOP," snapped a brown sedan in front of him. He snarled, "What's your DAMAGE?"

"Gonna be YOURS if your don't get your trunk moving," the Firebird revved.

In the wake of a miracle, the traffic began to move just enough for the cars to separate. Even still, it wasn't enough for the Firebird. He grit his teeth and yanked his steering to the right. Aiming for the lane over, he shot himself into it while glaring at the brown sedan until the Firebir-

SLAM

"Augh! Oh!" squeaked a female voice. The Firebird's eyes locked onto the rear window of the vehicle in front of him, all while his hood was jammed into her bumper. She was a 1980's Ford Tempo in a glossy forest green paint job.

The brown sedan chuckled, "Ain't in a hurry now, are ya? Gnarly crash, duuude."

The Firebird's pupils constricted, feeling his hood crunch up into a tiny crinkle. Barely noticeable, but enough to prove to his chorus teacher when he asks him why he was late...again.

Heat rushed to his front end, flushing the top of his hood in an embarrassed rouge. The only thing that pulled him out of his trance was the familiar sound of a song that had come out recently. Billy Joel's voice wandered behind her and over to him.

And when she wakes up and makes up her mi-i-ind.

She'll see I'm not-so-tough.

Just because. I'm in love.

With an uptown-girl.

The Ford pulled forward enough to get him off of her. With a soft sigh and a dull voice which dragged, she turned on her hazard lights, "Alriiight, let's pull over."

"Y-Yeah," the Firebird agreed. He turned on his hazard lights too, and slowly made his way over to the shoulder of the highway. They inched through the lanes of cars, squeezing through small spaces they made for them. While it helped, the other cars weren't happy. To those cars, the Firebird and Tempo only created more traffic.

When they settled off to the side, the Firebird eyed her rear bumper, "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to."

"No one means to," she rolled her eyes, then peeked at him in her mirrors, "You don't looook bad."

"Neither do you," he gestured to her bumper with his tire, "You can probably get that pulled out in a shop. I'm sure it'll even take less than ten minutes."

"This your way of asking me not to call the poliiice?"

The Firebird lowered his tire down to the asphalt and scuffed his treads into tar, "I don't think we have to. Any other time, sure, but I kind of have a class to get to."

"So do I," she narrowed her eyelids, "You made me just as late as you probably areee."

"I sincerely apologize-," he paused, realizing he didn't get the Tempo's name.

"Denise," she turned her wheels and made a three-point turn around to face him, "And you areee?"

"Adam," he said without hesitation, "Adam Springwheel."

Now that she was looking at him, something wasn't right. Her voice matched her face. Her eyelids hung halfway open while her pupils held almost no soul at all.

"Are...you okay?" asked Adam.

"Nooo, I was hit," she replied. The "H" sound forced her breath forward enough for Adam to understand the problem a lot clearer. He furrowed his eyelids and sniffed the air between them.

The notes on her breath were distinct: Alcohol.

The Firebird raised an eyelid.

Who drank that early in the morning? And at their age?

"Actually," said Adam, "My class can wait."

"Luuucky, because my class-"

"And your class can wait too," Adam's gestured with his tire, "Tell me where you live."

"For what?" asked Denise. She tilted her body in overexaggerated confusion.

"You can't drink and drive."

She lifted herself on her axles to try and appear taller than him, "If you call the police, I'll tell them what you diiiid to me."

"If you won't call the police, I'm certainly not going to call them either," Adam did his best to reason with her, "We both screwed up. Let me drive you home. You can take the day off just this once."

Denise looked like she was listening, but her eyelids fell even lower. They almost shut until she blinked them quickly to make herself look alert again.

"Denise, you're practically falling asleep. You can't drive."

She groaned, "FiiiiIIIiineee."

The two cars put on their turning signals and merged back into the heavy traffic. What once was painful, rolling through the traffic mile by mile, turned pleasant. Instead of arguing with a stranger, Adam found a lovely conversation.

Albeit, disorganized and intoxicated.

The Firebird and the Tempo went on and on about their lives, where they were on their way to, and what they aspired to be.

"I've always wanted to a paaastry chef," said Denise, who kept constantly checking her mirrors after the accident.

"You say that like it's something you've given up on," also a bit paranoid after the accident, Adam kept his eyes on the car ahead of him.

Denise turned silent.

The background noise of engines rumbling in unison fell away, as Adam listened closer to Denise despite the fact that she was no longer speaking.

"...Denise? You still with me?"

"Wh-oh...sorry, I was just thinking," she finally said.

"I can see that."

She tried to change the subject, "Just wish this traffic would mooo-"

"Denise!" Adam grabbed her tire with his and yelled, "Brake!"

"Oooh!" Denise pressed her brakes and came to a stop, "I saw him, I saw him. He's right in front of meee. I saw him."

But he knew she didn't. Adam decided to change the subject right back, "I can relate, you know."

"Yeaaah. Everyone loves beer."

"No, n-...well, I won't deny that," he looked ahead of himself again, "But I meant feeling uneasy about what you want to do."

"It's not that I feel uneaaaasy," Denise tried to justify herself, "I just don't want to hear it if I screw up...but anyway...I wanna know about you."

"I'm graduating high school," Adam began, "Some of the guys are goin' to college and some of them already have these great jobs lined up-"

"I asked yooou about you."

"...well a friend and I both have dreams that other cars think are ridiculous. I'd rather not say."

"As ridiculous as me becoming a pastry chef?" Denise smirked, "Doooubt it."

"No, for real," Adam sighed, "Just forget it. Let me get you home and that's that."

"It's not like you guys wanna be movie stars," she laughed.

"Nope, not me."

"Good, because that would have been-"

"But my friend, Marty, does."

Denise pulled her lips in and quieted down.

"Heh," he laughed, "...but like you were going to say. It's ridiculous."

"He can be a movie staaaar," she sang, "Video killed the raaadio staaar."

"Marty is a DeLorean trying out for some time travel movie," the Firebird shrugged, "Who knows if his career will take off?"

Denise looked Adam up and down, "You look like you can be in a mooovie. You would have fit in that ghost movie coming out where they go around catching them."

"Maybe," Adam chuckled, "I ain't afraid of no ghost."

As the Tempo and Firebird continued their commute and as Adam tried his very best to keep her awake, he finally exited the highway with her, and guided her home.

"This is iiit," she moaned, stopping right at the curb with Adam. He studied the outside. It was a short art deco style with pastel orange borders around its windows. Palm trees surrounded the limited lawn out front, but Adam was sure the backyard had more.

"Wow...your parents must have pretty choice jobs," said Adam.

"Don't be crunchy," Denise replied, "Besiiides, the house is miiine."

Adam threw himself into park and his mouth hung open, "How could you own a house?"

"I work haaard," she bat her eyelids in his direction and whispered, "I get what I want, Adam. I aaalways get what I want."

"Okay…," Adam didn't really know how to answer that.

"Someone should teach you how to gamble. It can get you everything you waaant," she gestured up to her home, "But, heeey, thanks for driving me hooome," she snickered softly, "I'm gonna go crash. NOT that kind of crash," she winked, "But...come by some time. Come over. We can play Atari together."

After thinking about it for a few seconds, Adam nodded, "Sure, sure. I'd like that."

She pulled a marker out of her wheel well, "Lean forward."

Adam let the weight of his body rest to his front end for her, "For what?"

"You're gonna need a new hood anywaaay, but while you have your old ooone-," she pressed the tip of her marker onto his hood and scribbled down her phone number. As she pulled the marker away and while Adam was still bent forward, Denise pressed her lips over the rough crinkles she caused.

He smirked, "I'll call you later tonight and I'll see how you are," he pulled himself out of park.

"I'll hold you to iiit," she pulled away.

Adam turned his wheels, "I'll see ya, Denise."

As Adam drove away, Denise swayed on her axles, barely able to stand still, "Adaaam! Wait!"

He pressed his brakes and glanced over at her in his mirrors, "Yeah?"

"You never told me what your dreaaam is."

Adam figured it would be harmless to tell her. After all, she was drunk, so she wouldn't remember much of anything, "I want to be a race car."

His fears were confirmed when she, like the rest of the vehicles he's ever told, smirked and began to giggle. His expression dropped and he sighed. He let off of his brakes to drive away.

"You can do iiit!" she said between giggles.

Adam blinked and hit his brakes again, "...what?"

"I beliiieve," Denise insisted.

Even if she was intoxicated, Adam appreciated hearing another car that wasn't his best friend, for the first time, finally root for him.

"...thank you, Denise."

"In faaact, I bet you're so fast you can make it to your class on tiiime."

A clock might as well have slamed him in the face. Springwheel bucked forward, "Oh! OH!" he slammed on his accelerator and his rear wheels spun out. When he shot forward, he disappeared into a cloud of his own burnt rubber.

"Sounds like quite the woman," said Hammer with thick sarcasm in his tone.

"Believe me," Springwheel sighed, "When she was sober, Denise was an angel. She was witty and could bring me down to earth when I wasn't thinkin' straight...and she believed in me. She thought I could do it. I fell in love with that."

Hammer's eyes widened, "When she was sober? You mean she kept on drinking?"

"More than you'd believe."

"So you did call her after she wrote her phone number on your hood," said Murphy.

"Did you ever make it to class on time?" asked Jane.

"To be honest, Jane," he glanced over to Murphy, who was already grinning because he knew the answer, "I practically never showed up on time. Anywhere. Not just to class."

Murphy sneered, "I knew it."

"And, Murphy, to answer your question I did more than call her."

"Ugh," Luke cringed, "Spare us the details."

"WHO IS EMILY?" Lutum yelled.

"Allow me to continue and I'll straighten it all out," Springwheel promised, "Like I was saying, I never showed up to class on time...or pretty much anything at all, unless I was going to see a race," he laughed, "And I saw a race three times a week before work."

About two years after graduation and rushing through Miami's city lights, Adam Springwheel just made it past every amber light that threatened him with turning red. He glided around corners, zipped around older cars, and ignored any all-way stop signs. The Firebird only stopped when he reached his destination: Chocolate Chambers

The Firebird, littered with two large stickers on his doors, could smell the frying donuts already. His stickers read the logo of the shop. It sat on a busy street between two diners. Its name was lit in pink and blue neon lights, tilted at an angle, while the curb outside glowed from the bright fluorescent lights inside. Adam pulled up to the door and pressed his nose against the glass. As the door opened, it knocked into a bell hanging just above it.

When it rang, Adam called out, "Mister Bronzeman! I'm back! Delivered those three dozens of donuts to those cops before they even expected to see them!"

A bar for cars to park and snack separated the front of the shop with the back. Adam drove around the employees side with a grin.

From the back of the shop, a crabby old 1958 Edsel Citation with a tan body and white fins drove out with narrowed his eyes before greeting Adam.

"Faster than ever, I imagine," he grumbled.

"Thaaat's right!"

Mister Bronzeman eyed the young man's cheerfulness, "Problem is you were out delivering that order four hours ago."

The Firebird scoffed, "No way, it hasn't been four-," he glanced up at an analog clock, mocking him from the center of the storefront. Its hands didn't lie. The last time Adam saw that clock was four hours ago, "Ah...what do ya know.."

"What do I know?" Mister Bronzeman used his tire to swat away stray sprinkles scattered around the bar, "I know you weren't here straightening up my store."

"Well-"

"I know you weren't just out there delivering those donuts for four hours."

"Which may be true, but-"

"BUT, Springwheel," the Edsel cruised around the Firebird as he interrogated him, "What I know most of all, was that you came in on time today."

"Yes!" Adam's eyes moved from left to right, then from both of his mirrors, and followed Mister Bronzeman until he was in front of him again, "I was really hoping you'd notice that!"

"So I know you listened to me when I told you to stop going to those damn races before your shift," he grinned.

"Exactly!" Adam confirmed.

The Edsel stopped only inches in front of Adam and his smile disappeared, "So, instead of being stupid enough to come to work four hours late, you went to the race during your shift for four hours."

Adam's eyes couldn't open any wider. He lowered on his suspension, cornered by his boss' accusations, "Mister Bronzem-"

The front door of the donut shop flew open and crashed against the wall. The bell swung violently around, ringing loudly, but not over the sound of the cheering vehicle that caused the ruckus.

"ADAM!" screamed a gun metal gray DeLorean. He smiled from fender to fender, "MY MOVIE IS GETTING A SEQUEL!"

The Firebird's mood changed in seconds. He turned away from his boss, "You're kidding! That's amazing, Marty!"

"Yeah! Part TWO!"

Mister Bronzeman wasn't amused. Still, he idled there until Adam and Marty got their excitement out.

"What about you?" asked the DeLorean, "Did you nail any racing sponsors yet? Huh?" he chuckled and nudged his friend, "I'm sure all of them want a handsome dude like you strutting around with their products."

"You know you would have known by now," Adam wasn't jealous to see his friend's success; even if it did remind him that he didn't have a racing gig.

"You know what? You're gonna be so great," Marty assured him. He patted Adam on the fender, "If I can do this, you can do that and-," he lowered his voice, "...how's your wife by the way? Is she doing any better?"

"Denise? We signed her up for a few different programs and together they seem to be working out well."

"...so?"

"So..," his smile faded, "...everything is good."

Marty raised an eyelid, "Just 'good'?"

Adam nodded only once, "Just good."

With a tilted lip and a deep inhale, Marty could tell Adam wasn't telling the whole truth, "Alright, then. I might be busier than I used to be, but you know you can always come find me if you ever need anything. Any help," he looked right into his eyes, "A way out."

Adam shook his hood fast, "I don't need a way out," Adam insisted, "I've been supporting her just fine by myself."

Marty sighed, "This is the eighties, dude. Your woman should be supporting herself too."

"My woman has me," Adam gestured to himself, "I'm all she needs."

"That's where you're wrong," Mister Bronzeman cut in.

Adam turned to his boss. His expression fell with Marty's.

Mister Bronzeman continued, "Springwheel, I've just about had it with your tardiness."

"Wait, I make all of our deliveries on time!" he protested.

"I'm not talking about our deliveries I'm talking about you. You, you, you, YOU, YOU."

The Firebird shrunk down on his axles.

"It's unbelievable how many times a car can be late and just how late you feel it's acceptable to come strolling on in here like this is your garage."

"I apologize, Mister Bronzeman."

"I'm starting to believe those are the only words you know how to say."

"But I didn't mean to-"

"No one means to, Springwheel."

Adam broke eye contact to glance at the Chocolate Chambers sticker on his hood.

"Always a race," Mister Bronzeman cruised over to the front door and swung the 'open' sign to 'closed', "It's ALWAYS," he kicked one of the metal tables and it scraped against the tiles, "-ALWAYS a race."

Marty looked back and forth between Adam's boss and the Firebird himself, "Adam needs to be at the races. That's the only way he's going to be noticed out there."

"No. NO. He'll be noticed if HE is the one racing," Mister Bronzeman locked his eyes on Adam's trunk, "But it's NOT him racing out there. The only thing racing around here is the fantasy in his mind. Clouding himself up with NONSENSE. But again, it's NOT him racing out there. Right?"

"..."

"RIGHT, Adam?"

"...," Adam kept very still.

"He's stuck here workin' for you," Marty narrowed his eyes, "That's why it's not him out there!"

The silver Firebird jumped up and around with a hard gasp, "Marty! Dude?"

"Don't let this guy push you around! You're gonna take this from him?" Marty rolled his eyes.

Mister Bronzeman moved his focus onto the DeLorean, "So it's my fault Springwheel isn't good enough for the track?"

"No, it's not," Adam replied, making sure he did before Marty said anything, "Totally my fault."

The DeLorean growled, "Tell him the truth, Adam! Don't be such a pushover."

"And I suppose it's my fault he's irresponsible?"

"NO! My fault! My fault!" Adam chanted, "It's my fault!"

"You're stressing him out," Marty pulled forward, "Look at him!"

"The only thing I'm even partially responsible for is the loss of his job."

"WAIT," Adam drove between them and looked at Mister Bronzeman with pleading eyes, "Don't do this!"

"Because Adam is responsible for the rest," the Edsel lifted his axle and brought a tire to Adam's hood. He grabbed the edge of his sticker in his treads and ripped it off, leaving behind some of its torn residue, "You. Are. Fired."

Adam eyes fell to the residue. His mouth hung open in shock.

"Looks like you'll need a new hood. No way you're getting all that sticker gunk off. If you were a better worker, I'm sure affording it wouldn't have been an issue."

"You're a real piece of work," Marty turned toward Adam while he spoke to his boss, "Why don't you go scratch? You bastard."

"Mister Bronzeman, I n-need this job to support my wife," Adam turned away from Marty, "You don't understand. Please reconsider this."

"No."

"She can't afford her programs on her own! PLEASE."

"Then I suggest she gets a job. Maybe she can work at it a lot better than you."

"She can't be on her own!"

"Springwheel, ENOUGH."

"She NEEDS me."

"Adam..," Marty nudged his fender, "This isn't the only job you'll ever-"

"Get off of me," Adam pushed Marty away.

"I just helped you, Adam," Marty insisted.

"Thanks," he glared, "Thanks a lot for your help."

Mister Bronzeman pushed the door open for him, "Adam, it's time for you to leave."

"I'll never be late again...I swear it.."

"Now, Adam."

"You and me," the DeLorean said, trying to cheer him up. He turned to the door with his friend, "We can talk over a few drinks."

Adam revved up his engine, rattling the cheap walls inside of the shop. He grit his teeth and bucked up his rear.

"Adam?" Marty raised an eyelid.

But Adam didn't reply. He slammed on his acceleration and let his tires spin against the tiles. The squealing echoed around the vehicles. The high pitched tone practically deafened the older Edsel. Adam threw himself out onto the Miami streets, leaving only his skid marks behind - next to the crumbled sticker.

"Now I regret ever strolling into your class late," said Murphy.

"I tried to tell you time and time again," said Springwheel.

"Chrysler, Mister Springwheel," Jane frowned, "Where did you go?"

"I couldn't go home because I'd have to face my wife," he paused, "I don't mean that in a funny way, either. I really...really had no idea how I was going to break that news to her. So I drove…and then I sped...and then I raced. Alone."

"That's gotta be the second hood you went through in this story," said Hammer.

Springwheel's eyes crossed when he glanced down at the tip of his hood, "...you're right."

"But I find it hard to understand why you were supporting your wife. Alcoholics have jobs, you know. Not all of them can hold jobs, but Denise seemed fine driving around. Unless she was-"

"-pregnant," Springwheel interrupted.

The full moon shined down on the lone Firebird as he hauled himself to Miami Speedway. He pulled into the lot, drove under the archway entrance, and gazed upon the height of what would...never be his future. When he pulled inside, the ticket booths were all closed by steel curtains. It didn't deter him. He'd been to the track so many times, Adam knew the nearest back entrance ramp. It would take him right onto the track. He snuck around the halls, pretending he belonged there, until he turned onto the right ramp.

As he emerged, the stadium lights were still on. It had only been a few hours since the last race. Even the tire marbles haven't been completely cleared off the asphalt. Other than that, the audience stands were void of vehicles; except some lights on in the announcer booth. Adam eyed it in concern, but if there were no cars in the audience, then there wouldn't be any announcers in the booth. Exhaling, he dragged himself onto the track and pulled behind the starting line.

He brought his wheel over the checkered paint and caressed it. Such a simple pattern, but one that proved divine for Adam. The more he ran his treads over the different texture, the more his axles loosened up. His jaw wasn't as tense and he finally relaxed.

"Alright, Adam," he whispered to himself, "Prove them wrong."

The Firebird revved up his engine.

"You can rev louder than that," he said, "For Denise. Do it for Denise."

He revved even harder, letting his engine redline and rattle. It fired around the speedway, bouncing off the audience stands.

He narrowed his eyes and smiled wide, "Yeah-heh-heah!" and his tires launched him forward.

Adam hugged the track nice and low, following it up to the first turn. He welcomed the track's tilt, trusting gravity to hold him down. The laws of physics and Adam waltzed together in his lonesome. He imagined a crowd of ghosts calling out his name and racers far behind his tail staring in disbelief.

And as he crossed that finish line after just one lap, he imagined himself a Piston Cup winner. His tires melted to a stop, dragging along skid marks.

"Who are you?" echoed an unknown Southern voice, "You're-a-trespassin'."

Adam's eyes blinked quickly, "U-Uh...I-I.."

"Up here," said the voice.

Adam turned his attention to the announcer's booth.

"I see your lips movin'," said the man, "But I can't hear a dang word you're sayin'."

Adam replied with a nod, since speaking would do him no good.

"I know you know who I am. You wouldn't be sneakin' on this track if you weren't a racing fan. It's me! Ken Squealer!"

Adam gasped under his breath. A real...live Piston Cup announcer was speaking to him.

Ken's silhouette moved against the glass window. Adam could barely make out his face, but from television he knew he was a white 1975 Dodge Colt with brown paneling.

"How about you sign yourself up for a Piston Cup race instead of driving in circles down there?" asked Ken, "You did that lap in record time. Seen it with my own eyes, but I ain't ever seen you 'round here before."

From up in the booth, Ken could see Adam stand taller on his axles and mouth, "Are you serious!?"

He chuckled into his microphone, "Yes, sir. Come roll on up here and I'll give you some paperwork. We just had a racer retire from one of our sponsors. I'm sure the company would love to interview you. Watch you race a few laps and make a decision."

Adam couldn't contain his excitement. He hopped up and down with vigor in his treads.

Ken shook his hood, "Ah, I saw you race anyway. They'd trust my word if I told them how good ya were."

Adam pawed at the asphalt, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

The Dodge Colt waved him over, "These contracts ain't gonna sign themselves."

"Marty eventually apologized and we spoke again, but I was so excited about the opportunity that I practically forgot anyone else in my life existed...with the exception of Denise. To me, those packets of papers were a glimpse into the rest of my life. I thought every page was the next chapter. My career. Every page was a mile closer to being one of the greatest Piston Cup racers of all time," he laughed, "I initialed and signed so many lines my ball joints cramped up, but-," Springwheel brought a wheel up to one of his cheeks, "-I could still feel the burning. It's been years since I've smiled that hard and for that long. It ached to be that happy. I couldn't wait to share it with the cars I loved," he lowered his wheel back down to ground, "And that's exactly what I did. In a way, Denise was right about gambling."

"Don't start teaching these kids they should take advice from cars with addiction issues," Hammer turned his attention to the younger cars, "It gets you nowhere. Ask Murphy. He remembers Gus."

Murphy shuddered at the thought, "Yeesh.."

Adam replied, "Denise was right about taking the chances you have to take when you're gambling. It can lose you a lot, but if you don't try to go after something you love, you'll never have the chance to win something beyond your wildest dreams. Life, itself, is a gamble...and...every signature I put on that paperwork was a wager."

With the opportunity of a lifetime pointing him home, Adam cruised down the Miami highways with pep in his treads. When he finally pulled up to Denise's short art deco house, this time his heightened senses made the pastel oranges even more vibrant. The palm trees even waved 'hello', welcoming him home. He rolled up to the front door, unlocked it and pulled inside. The lights were all turned off, so wherever his headlights didn't shine remained dark.

"Denise!" he called out, cutting his headlights off, "Baby, I'm h-home!"

Adam panted between his words, even though he wasn't rushing home. The thrill of the thought was enough to knock the wind out of him.

"...Denise! Babe! Baby, I have GREAT news!"

He frantically patted the wall for a light switch. When his treads met plastic, he went to flick the house lights on, but a dim orange glow coming from the dining room caught the corner of his windshield. He narrowed his eyes, curiously, and followed the glow instead. He sniffed the air with his grille, detecting the meandering aroma of someone who must have been cooking a couple hours before. He rolled through the main hall, then underneath the dining room archway.

But what he saw made his smile fade as quickly as the speedway painted it on.

Along their cherry wooden table were two plates of food which no longer steamed from their freshness. The warmth blew away with the time. Between the plates, in the center of the table, stood two white candles melted almost all the way down their wicks. Their flood of wax dripped onto the table, ruining its expensive finish.

Adam's eyes followed the candles and he noticed a bottle of red wine laying down beside a sleeping Ford Tempo's wheel. Its last drops were settled at the bottom. The Ford's bumper rested on the edge of the wood and her doors were puffy from her pregnancy. The shimmer of some spilled wine between her treads sparkled each time her body bobbed up and down with every breath in the candlelight.

"You can't be serious," he said to himself. He quickly pulled around the table, "No," he grabbed the glass bottle in disbelief, then stood it onto its base. He shook her wheel and some of the wine transferred onto his rubber, "Wake up, Denise."

Her mouth hung open, gasping a gentle snore.

"Denise, WAKE up."

Her eyelids groggily lifted up into two slits. She glanced over at him and shut her eyes again.

"Dammit, Denise," he let go of her wheel and brought his tire to her fender. He shook her back and forth, "COME ON."

"Nnn," she moaned. She opened her eyes to slits once more and snarled, "Shhhh."

"DENISE," Adam grit his teeth and shook her again.

"WhaAAAT," Denise croaked. She opened her eyes wider and the corners of her windshield were bloodshot, "Ohh...look who's hooome…"

"Why are you DRINKING?"

"StoooOP yelling at me," she hiccupped, "YoooOUU're late."

Adam mimicked her tone, "And yooou're PREGNANT," the Firebird guided her away from the table and looked her right in the eyes, "Are you drunk right now?"

"Are yoooou drunk?"

He narrowed his eyes. His question had been answered, "This isn't a game. You fell asleep with candles lit ON A WOODEN TABLE."

"And yooooou're LATE," she pointed to the slow dying candles, "I had your dinner here for hours. How DARE you."

"How dare I what?" he slammed his tire down on the carpet and raised his voice, "How dare I WORK for YOU? How dare I pay the bills?"

"You STUuuPID MAN," Denise slurred, "You think I don't know?"

"What? You think I'm cheating on you? The mother of my child?" he spoke through his teeth, "You think I'm out there screwing around? I'm working for YOU," he pointed to her puffy doors, "I'm working for HIM-..or her."

"YOU are not worKING you are spending our money on RACES."

"Oh yeah? And how much do you think it costs to see a race compared to how much you booze?" he shot forward, "I make every dollar you spend on wining and dining and you shouldn't even be DRINKING."

"Every dollar from A DONUT SHOP," she laughed maniacally, "You make us so much moooney with your minimum wage job."

"At least I earn - ugh - earned a damn WAGE. A casino bought you THIS house," he gestured up to the ceiling, "A CASINO paid for the roof above your head. How very NOBLE of you. You have a lot to show for yourself."

"EXCUSE ME?"

"You heard every word I just said."

Denise clenched her teeth, "I worked for this house juuust as hard as you work."

"Like hell you did."

"FUCK YOU, ADAM."

"You already DID."

Denise gasped heavily and lunged forward. Adam's mouth dropped open and he put a tire out in front of him to stop her from bashing into him. He tried his best to hold her back. He lowered his voice to try to get her to do the same, "Denise, you're pregnant," he struggled with her, groaning in unison, "R-Remember that you're pregnant."

"I HAAATE YOU," she lifted a tire.

"Wait, WAIT," he looked up at her wheel, but if he took his tires off of her, he knew she'd hurt the baby if her body rammed him, "Denise, remember you're having our BABY."

"HAAATE-"

"Remember that I LOVE YO-"

She threw all of her strength into her tire and punched his left headlight out. Adam cringed from the sting, but mostly from the sound of the clashing glass.

"You'll NEVER BE A RACER," she screamed, "How many jobs have you already gooone through?"

Adam's voice cracked from the yelling, "More than you'll EVER have in your life."

"Job AFTER JOb," she coughed directly on his nose.

Adam wiped her saliva off of his face.

Then, Denise lowered the tone of her voice to mock him, "Hoooney, this is temporary. I'll be a RACER before you knooow it."

"You don't even know what-"

She grabbed some of the broken bottle shards on the floor and held it in her treads, "And we'll live happily ever aaafter."

"Wh-What are you doing?"

"I'm NOT happy, Adam," she slapped the glass onto his grille and rubbed her wheel back and forth.

Adam tightened his jaw and shut his eyes. His body trembled in the pain, feeling the glass scraping deep into his metal over and over again, "N-NNNn! DENISE!"

"You think you can keep RISING from life's fire and ASHES like you're some kind of PHOENIX or something."

"...wh-what?"

She pulled her axle away, "But you're NOT a racer AND you're NOT a Phoenix, ADAM," she swayed on her axles, "You're A FOOL. You're A STUpiD CAR."

He watched her in disbelief as she cranked her axle back once more and slapped him across the bumper. She knocked some of the glass left on his hood and in his headlight housing off of his face. They trickled onto the floor.

"That's IT," he turned his tires and rolled to the end table holding their ceramic white home phone.

"WhaT's IT!?" she stumbled over herself, trying to follow him.

He yanked the phone off the base and dialed 9-1-1.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" asked a female dispatcher on the line.

"I ne-need the police," Adam said as calmly as he could.

"PoLICE?" Denise grabbed at his rear tire, "STOP."

"My w-wife is attacking me," his voice shook, trying to kick her off at the same time.

"Sir, is that her in the background?"

"GeT OFF THE PhONE YOU COWAAARD."

"Yep, that's h-her."

"Do you need an ambulance? Are you hurt?"

"No," he looked down at his hood and grille, "N-Not yet. I just need the police. She's pregnant and she's drunk and she punched one of my headlights out and-"

Denise rolled around Adam's body and grabbed the phone wires. She pulled them so roughly, she ripped a hole in their drywall.

"Oh, you are SO going to jail," Adam said, while shaking his hood, "I'm tired of you. I do EVERYTHING for you."

"You do NOTHING."

"I DO EVERYTHING."

"I thought you LOVED me. You'll ALWAYS BE like this," she dropped the phone onto the floor, "You will n-never be HAPPY."

"Then I'd rather die miserable than spend another day like this. I'm DONE, Denise."

"You can't be done with ME," she reversed a little, "If you're done, then I'll get r-rid of our girl. If you're done with ME, y-you're done with HER."

"I-It's a girl…?" Adam's expression dropped. He glanced at her doors again and his bottom eyelids trembled, "N-No," he quickly shook himself out of it, "You're not doing ANYTHING to her. I won't let you."

"Watch ME," she turned in the direction of the kitchen.

"DENISE," Adam didn't hesitate to throw himself in front of her. He grabbed her chin. With the threat of harming their baby more than she already may have with the wine, he dragged her toward the wall and pressed her backward, "You're not moving 'til the cops get here," he pressed harder. He forced her body to shift into reverse.

"GET OFF OF ME," her voice rang in Adam's hearing.

"I'm not MOVING. You w-won't get hurt."

"I'll MAKE you move."

"I wasn't talking to y-you," he locked eyes with Denise, "I was talking to her."

"The longer Denise was pregnant, the more I realized how much more of a responsibility I had coming to me. I supported Denise. Most of my paycheck went to her," Springwheel shook his hood, "But after that night, a switch flipped in my mind. I wouldn't be able to explain it to you unless you all had children. When I heard she was a girl, it made her seem so much more...real. I wasn't going to let anyone hurt her. Not even her mother," he scoffed, "And as far as I'm concerned, all that baby girl needed was me. I don't want to hear any psychologist telling me she needed her mother. No one needed that woman."

"So wh-what happened after the fight?" asked Jane.

"I went through with the divorce and let myself enjoy my racing career," suddenly Springwheel laughed, "I was in the middle of the third race of the season when I got a call that my ex-wife was in labor," he let his laugher fall away into a serious gaze, "With my daughter. Denise lost custody before she even had her. Judge said Denise was to be nowhere near that little girl," he held his wheel up, "Unless she cleaned up her act. So...Denise had the baby and she was handed right off to me."

Hammer exhaled a sigh of relief, "Good news…I bet she never got any better."

"That was a race all in itself. Not the kind you'd think of, but taking care of baby alone was a second career. Though, I didn't mind...it was me and Emily. I'd give anything to just be 'me and Emily' again."

A few months later…

Our Firebird idled in front of his stove, watching water boil in a stainless steel pot. Every so often, he glanced over to his counter, where an instruction booklet was folded backwards.

"Place empty bottle in boiling water for five minutes to kill any bacteria," he read out loud. Sitting on a towel were two plastic baby bottles. One for the moment and one as a back up. He picked up the first bottle he touched and dropped it into the water. Too busy to think, he didn't realize what dropping things into boiling water would do.

Incredibly hot droplets of water jumped out of the pot and landed onto three of his racing decals.

"Augh!" Adam grunted. He looked down at his sponsor's sticker smacked onto his hood, where a few holes melted away the cheap plastic.

"Plastic decal melted into paint," he groaned, "There goes another hood."

Though his look was brand new, Adam Springwheel kept his paint a glistening silver, but he had other Piston Cup sponsors littered around his body in various decals and sticker sizes. They were all brands except for his racing number: 77

"Which was ironic," said Springwheel, "Because Denise was all about gambling and by her standards, I had the luckiest racing number."

And a decal of a fiery orange and red Phoenix over his left steel headlight cover.

"The same headlight she smashed. I'm glad. Without her, I wouldn't have gotten my stage name."

The timer over the stove dinged and Adam flinched. He quickly pulled the bottle out of the water and let it cool off to the side. He grabbed a plastic box with baby pink lettering that read: Newbuilt Baby Formula

He popped off the lid and once the bottle cooled completely, he carefully measured the amount of formula the box called for. As he dipped the spoon, a baby's cry wailed and screeched from the living room.

Adam jumped, causing the formula to dust the countertop, "Shoot…," he called out to the living room, "Emily! I'm coming!" he took some water, specially purified for babies, and poured it over the dry formula, "Hang in there, I'm coming!"

Louder than a parrot, Emily continued to bawl in the next room.

"Emily, it's okay! Daddy's coming!" he put the nipple top back on the bottle and stored it in his wheel well. He turned the stove off and swung his body around. It knocked the pot handle to the side, and tipped the box of baby formula over the edge, and onto the floor. It popped open and exploded all over the kitchen tiles.

Adam stopped hard, "Chrysler."

"WaaaAHHHHHHhHh!"

"Oh! Ah! I'm here!" Adam shook his hood, "I'm here!" he rushed out of the kitchen and into the living room, where Emily had her tires all sprawled out on a couch pillow.

Emily was a 1985 Pontiac Trans Am not even the size of the diameter of Adam's tires. Her paint was a rich forest green, just like her mother, and her eyes were as emerald as her father's. Her mouth was stretched open and not a single tooth erupted from her little pink gums. Tears seemed to endlessly stream from her windshield.

"Shhh," he smiled, as much as he wanted to cringe from the volume, "Hey, there Emily."

Adam used his tire to push Emily to the edge of the pillow. He presented the bottle to her and Emily latched onto it. Adam then dipped his hood down so she could roll right onto him. When Emily stopped on his hood, she hugged his metal and sniffled. She drank her formula quickly, gazing right into Adam's eyes.

"That's my girl," Adam whispered. The warmth of her tiny little body made him feel like a giant. He watched her feed, "You were hungry, huh?"

After a moment, Emily dropped her bottle and it rolled off his hood, "W-Waaah!"

"Noooo, no more of that," Adam chuckled and tapped the television remote, "You sound like Chick Hicks."

When the television flashed on, RSN replayed a moment from a previous race earlier in the week, where Adam sped past Hicks like he was parked on the track.

Ken Squealer's voice came over the air as Adam swayed his body from side to side, rocking Emily. As Emily hushed, the announcer's voice was much clearer, "-for Adam Springwheel on Monday when he yanked another Piston Cup right out of Chick Hick's reach."

"That's your daddy right there," Adam whispered. His own voice came onto the television, as it showed clips of an excited Firebird winning the race. He spun donuts, smoking up the track underneath him, and cheered through the squealing, "Like a Phoenix, baby!"

"Phoenix is fighting his way through the pack every race, snatching up all those Piston Cups. A Dinoco sponsorship might actually be within his sight, as Tex Dinoco mentioned, but there is another car out there battling just as hard. In fact, talk of the track tonight is The King, also known as Strip Weathers."

Adam eyed the television with a blank stare. As much as he wanted to glare at The King through his screen, he brought his eyes back to Emily. Anything he did set an example for her.

A golden 1975 Cadillac Coupe De Ville with horns tied to his grille continued Ken's enthusiasm, "Definitely some exciting racin' goin' on out there. You'd think those two cars came from the same breed, but it's Pontiac versus Plymouth."

"Do you have any idea who you're going to give the sponsorship to?"

"Not just yet. Once our current racer retires, I can tell ya that I'll be looking at them. No doubt about it."

"Think dad can land Dinoco?" Adam asked Emily.

Her eyelids became heavy and she replied with sleepy eyes.

"I'll take that as a yes," he glanced at the time.

9:03 PM

"It's getting late for you, young lady," Adam turned off the television, "Time for bed, Emm."

He drove his daughter up ramp to the second floor, then turned into the bedroom he once shared with Denise. Her side of the bed stayed made up, while Adam's side - unless he knew company was coming over - stayed 'lived in'. Next to the bed stood a baby's crib. He unlocked the latch and the bars swung open. Adam gently coaxed Emily off of his hood and she rolled backwards onto her little yellow blanket. She instinctively hugged it close to her undercarriage.

Adam leaned forward and carefully puckered his lips against her fender. His mouth alone, when resting, was as long as her entire body.

"Goodnight, Emily," he quietly closed the crib gate, "Sleep tight."

As he reversed, little Emily watched him roll away.

"She sounds so cute!" Jane exclaimed.

"She was like a little doll when she was that small," Springwheel confirmed.

"...was?" asked Murphy.

For once, Lutum kept silent. His body tilted in confusion.

Six months later…

"Daaad," called a young female's voice. She surrounded herself in a fluffy comforter on her bed. Her walls dripped in pastel pink underneath posters representing who she loved to call "the coolest 80's ladies". They ranged from Cardonna to Cylinder Lauper.

Music whispered from a modest radio on her end table, "Some cars take a beautiful girl and hiiide her away from the rest of the wooorld."

"I'm coming, Emily!" called Adam from down ramp.

"I wanna be the one who drives in the sun," she sang along with a book open in front of her. She had another stack of books next to her too. In her right wheel, she balanced her pencil, "Oooh girls, they wanna have fun. Oooh girls just wanna have-"

A deep, masculine voice cut in, "That's all they really waaaant."

"Ooo! Dad!" her eyes darted over to an intruding Firebird, "When did you get here?"

"I'm too fast for you," Adam shook his hood, "And...what are you wearing?"

Emily checked herself out. She grinned and jiggled her body, letting her feathery purple accessories dance on her fenders, "They're fender warmers! Everyone is wearing them these days!"

He sighed, "We talked about this. You're not old enough to be cruising around with those on."

"Mooom bought them for me!"

Adam mumbled, "Of course she did…," he sucked air in through his teeth, "Take them off. You're in junior high, not college."

She jerked back and took one of the fender warmers by its tail, "Can I please please pleeeaaase wear them just in my room then?"

"...fine."

"And can you take my pictuuuure?"

"Emily."

"Okay! Okay!"

He peeked over her fender, "So, what did you need, Pumpkin Spice?"

"My homework is too hard," she protested, "I don't understand any of it."

Adam assumed it was the first textbook he saw, which simply read: History

He pretended to shake, "I can't stand history. It's so boring."

"No, dad. Not my history book," she pointed to the correct page, "It's long division."

"Ohhh, math! I can help you with that."

"And for your information, dad, I like history. I think it's cool."

He chuckled, "Well, excuuuse me."

She stuck up her front end, "You'd be surprised how much cool stuff you never knew had to do with stuff today."

"Then you handle your history and I'll handle your math homework."

"Even all the stuff I've read about racing history! I think that's something you'd - wait - really!?"

Adam smirked, "No, not really. I'll help you, but I'm not doing your homework for you."

Emily groaned and stuffed her face into her workbook. Her voice muffled between the paper, "It's never gonna get done…"

"Hey," Adam brought his tire under her chin and lifted her front end into place, "Long division is easy. I'll show you a trick I used to use."

"Okay, but...after homework can I pretty pleeease go out racing with my friends? I wanna show them the drifting stop you taught me!"

"Pumpkin Spice, you know the answer to that too."

"But their parents let them do it!" Emily whined.

"I don't care what their parents let them do. There's a hurricane in the forecast coming right for Miami."

"Sooo? We always get thooose."

"So, Miss 'I don't like thunder', I want you home. You know how many maniacs are out there buying bread and milk? If you're caught up in their rush you could get into an accident."

Emily snickered, "Okaaay, dad."

"Which reminds me," he brought a wheel to his bottom lip, "I need to buy bread and milk..."

ding dong

Emily's mirrors perked up, "Someone's at the door!"

"I'll be right back," Adam tapped her workbook, "Try this on your own just a little bit longer in the meantime."

Emily nodded and took out a ruffled piece of scrap looseleaf. She spoke to herself, "Twelve goes into two-hundred forty-five," she scribbled down the numbers and furrowed her eyelids, "Twelve does not go into that. No way."

Adam rolled down ramp and over to the front door. He stepped on its switch and it rattled open to reveal a Ford Tempo from his recent past.

Adam's bright expression fell into that of a blank stare, "Denise."

"Adam," she replied. Her voice was much smoother and her breath didn't smell like a bar. He knew she was still keeping up her end of the court order, "It's my turn."

"No it isn't," Adam pulled forward into the doorway so she couldn't drive past him, "Your turn isn't until this Friday evening."

Denise raised an eyelid, "And today is that Friday," she looked him up and down, "And it is the evening."

Adam scoffed, "Can you blame me for losing track? Kind of hard to keep up with the calendar when you're taking care of your daughter by yourself…," he grinned, "...and winning Piston Cups."

Denise glared at his tease, "Shut up. Maybe you shouldn't have fought that hard for her in court then," she sneered, "Then I would have been allowed more visitation. Maybe I would've been able to see her for more than one weekend a month."

Emily pulled out of her bedroom and stuck her nose just past the ramp railing. She peeked down to see who was visiting, but when she spotting the two vehicles, her mirrors drooped down and she frowned.

Adam lowered his voice so Emily wouldn't hear. He couldn't have known she was watching, but he still knew better, "If it were up to me, you'd never see her again."

"And if it were up to me, I'd- Emily!" Denise's voice rose from their mumbles, as Emily started to bring herself down the ramp.

Like flipping a switch, Adam turned his angered expression into excitement. He reversed and turned to Emily, "Hey, Pumpkin Spice! Mom's here to pick you up."

Denise discretely shoved Adam back and took it upon herself to cruise inside her old home, "Hello, sweetheart!"

"Hi, mom," Emily said, looking between the both of them.

"You ready for some fun?" asked Denise. She smiled, "I have our whole weekend planned out."

"As long as I'm near a TV when dad races this weekend. He's gonna race for Dinoco, maybe! And another Piston Cup tomorrow night!"

"Of course," said Denise, "You won't miss a second of it."

Adam spoke over her mother, "And I'll race even faster knowing you're watching, Emily."

"Give dad a hug or something and let's go," Denise put herself into reverse, "I don't want to waste a minute."

Adam's eyes softened, trying to mask a frown that couldn't help but show. He lowered himself down as much as he could, so Emily could reach. The little Trans Am propped her wheels up onto his hood and squeezed her father tightly in her axles.

Adam shut his eyes and whispered, "If mom does anything odd, call me. Even if I'm racing."

Emily nodded against him and then slowly reversed her weight off of him, "See you Sunday night, dad."

Denise waved to Emily with her wheel, then drove out of the garage. Before Emily could leave the doorway, she stopped and turned back to her father.

Adam tilted his body in concern, "What's wrong, Pumpkin Spice?"

She shrugged, "I was just wondering...could you maybe rev your engine really loud before you start?" her mirrors perked up, "Like...like so I can hear it from here?"

He pulled his lips in, "You're darn right I can."

Her uncertainty fell into hope. Emily's front bumper bent into a smile again, "Okay! Okay, bye!"

"Bye, Emm," he waved his wheel, "And...goodnight."

"Sleep tight!" Emily turned her tires and drove out into the street.

"She did get better. If it went smoother, the judge told me I would be able to request more time for Denise to see her."

"Seriously? It's bad enough the court even gave her that much of a chance," Hammer narrowed his eyes, "She tried to hurt Emily before she even had the chance to drive on Earth."

"It's not like I loved it either," said Springwheel, "I hated that they allowed Denise take Emily to her place. I wanted the court to allow visitation with my supervision, but-," he shrugged, "-the court saw Denise was...better...and apparently that was enough for them."

"I've missed you sooo much, Emily," said Denise as she drove the Trans Am to her garage.

Emily kept her eyes on the clouds. The sky reddened in the calm before the storm. Even though she knew the sun was setting, she couldn't help but wonder if the sky was warning her to stop and turn away.

"Emily, are you listening to me?"

"Hm?" Emily looked at the Ford and nodded fast, "Yes, mom."

"You're so quiet. Every time I visit, you become quieter and quieter," Denise leaned in as they drove, "Do I need to tell the court that your father is doing something to you?"

Emily shook her hood just as fast as she nodded before, "Dad's okay."

"I don't care about him. I want to know if you're okay."

Emily's eyes caught an upcoming red light and she began to brake, "I think I'm okay too. My homework has me stress-...," she stopped, "..mom-"

"Sure honey," Denise laughed, as she kept rolling toward the intersection, "I remember how much I hated homework. I believe th-"

"MOM."

"I'm telling you the story," Denise rolled past the corners and her nose poked into the intersection. Cars drove by left and right, "I never-"

"The light!" over the honking horns and swerving vehicles, Emily cried, "MOM!" and she darted forward.

"Huh?" Denise looked around and when she realized what she'd done she gasped hard and froze in place.

Emily pulled in front of her and Denise's nose carved a scrape into her fender. She managed to keep her mother from rolling forward any more, "I-I got you, mom."

Breathing heavily, "Oh, oh," Denise brought her tire underneath Emily's chin, "Y-You were so fast.."

Panting, Emily replied, "D-..Dad's engine."

Denise heard the innocent reference and her eyes fell away from regret and filled with anger. She went to reply with words dripping in hatred, but the headlights of an oncoming semi truck flashed her out of it.

Her eyes widened, "Emm!"

As the truck pulled his horn, it vibrated their doors. Its massive size couldn't stop as quickly as a car. Denise grabbed Emily's tire, put herself in reverse, and yanked the little girl backward.

She yelped, but followed her mother's direction. Denise shut her eyes and pulled her daughter off to the road shoulder.

When the light turned green and Emily caught her breath, Denise spoke with an even tone, "If you tell your father where you got that scratch on your fender, I'll make sure the court never lets you see him again."

Emily swallowed hard, "I-"

"Do you understand?"

Emily nodded, "I-I do. I do."

Denise painted a big smile on her face and calmed her eyes, "Good! Then let's get you home!"

Emily reluctantly turned back onto the street. She tightened her axles and continued to her mother's one-floor garage.

Emily turned into the driveway. Her eyes travelled up the white paneling, then back down again to where the lower portion was splattered in dirt. Then, she pulled up to the front door and as her tire met the garage handle, it wiggled with the smallest amount of pressure.

Denise pushed her wheel away, "Don't touch that," she said, "I'm trying to get that fixed and if it falls off, then we won't have a locked door tonight," she paused and caught herself, "Don't go telling the court that either. Or your father."

Emily obeyed. Denise opened the garage door, then Emily rolled inside. Denise followed and let out a big yawn. She spoke through her howling, "Make sure you do aaall of your homework. Mom's going to watch some television."

Emily raised her eyelids, listening to her mother refer to herself in the third person, "Alright…I'll be in my room."

When turned into the living room, Emily drove down the hall to the back of the home. She nuzzled a door on her left and it creaked open. With a sigh, she nudged the light switch and illuminated the room. It wouldn't be her first rodeo.

A mattress was situated in the corner of the room, bare of any sheets or pillows. In the opposite end of the room stood a semi-decent writing desk sufficient enough for Emily to finish her school work. Just as she cruised over to the desk, she stopped short, and said out loud, "No! I left my homework!"

The little Trans Am groaned loudly and kicked one of the desk legs. She put herself in reverse and rolled backward until she climbed up onto her mattress. She didn't care if she still had mud in her treads. It didn't matter.

She relaxed on her axles and stared ahead at the cream painted walls, "Only forty-seven hours to go…," she brought her treads to the edge of a paint chip and picked it away.

Three hours later…

Emily pursed her lips and blew away a pile of paint chips off the corner of her bed. She stretched her axle up to begin a new pile, but then her gas tank knocked.

"Nmm…," she stepped off the mattress and quietly pushed her bedroom door open. She sniffed with her grille, wishing to smell some kind of food, though she could only pick up the same stale air from when she arrived.

Her mirrors twitched from the sound of Denise's television.

She raised an eyelid in confusion. How could her mother still be watching?

"...Mom?" she drove into the hallway. The closer she got to the living room, the louder the television became, "Ma?"

Emily rolled around the corner.

Between the staticky sounds of late night game show reruns was a rumbling snore every other moment. The television faintly lit the living room with an unnatural blue glow. Its brightness varied from the car on screen. Denise's lips hung open and a tiny bit of drool nestled in the corner of her mouth.

"Hello? Mom..?" Emily made her way into the living room, "I'm hungry."

Denise only moved when she needed to breathe.

"Hey, Mom, I'm really-," Emily's eyes suddenly caught onto an empty glass bottle surrounded by its own condensation on the coffee table. She pulled in her bottom lip and quietly shifted into neutral, so she didn't make as much noise. When she pulled next to the table, she read the label: Dinoco Light Beer

In that moment, Denise shifted her weight on her axles. Emily flinched and not even half of a second after, a loud clank erupted through the room. Emily hesitated to glance over her right fender to find her tire pushed two beer bottles over, and one was rolling away. She brought her wheel over her mouth and her pupils constricted as the bottle drum rolled.

Her mother's snoring seemed to shift and Emily pressed her tire against her face harder, moving it up and over her grille so not even the smallest breath would wake her. The bottle barreled toward a wall and Emily clenched her teeth. Just before it touched, the bottle stumbled over a hump in the flooring, and hindered itself.

Denise's snoring continued once again.

Emily slid her tire off her mouth and exhaled. She put herself in reverse and carefully steered out of the living room.

Her gas tank felt so light and empty, she thought it could float away. Her upper lip twitched from the burning sensation of keeping a wave of tears from pouring out of her windshield. She eyed the garage door, then checked her mother.

Denise's hood still bobbed up and down with each snore. It was official. Emily knew she was gone for the night.

But if mother was going to be out for the night, Emily thought, then she would do the same. With a reluctant tremble and a stretch of her axle, she reached for the garage handle. The hunger was too much to bear. She grabbed the handle and pulled just enough for it to slide up. When the door reached the frame, its vibration wiggled the door handle out of its socket and right at Emily's tires, but she didn't care. She turned on her headlights and headed out the door.

Before the game show could end, it suddenly cut to a sedan in a newsroom speaking out to all who were watching live. With a professional voice and a serious tone, he warned:

"We interrupt this program with a breaking news development. Hurricane Nicole has strengthened into a category four. I repeat, Hurricane Nicole has strengthened into a category four. It is expected to arrive Tuesday afternoon. All vehicles in Miami and its surrounding areas to the south are strongly advised to stay indoors until the hurricane passes over. If you live on lower apartment floors or live in a home close to sea level, you are encouraged to evacuate."

"I remember hearing about that hurricane," Hammer said.

"They didn't cancel the race either," said Springwheel, "A hurricane wasn't going to stop Tex from picking a new car to wear his sponsor."

"You must have landed that Dinoco deal," Hammer gestured to Springwheel's entire body, "You have their paint job now."

"Yeah, well...not quite. That Sunday was the last race of the season. If everything went according to plan, I'd win the race, Dinoco, and another Piston Cup. I was going to head right over to Denise's garage and get Emily. I wanted her in my house before the storm hit."

Luke cleared his throat and finally joined the conversation, "...wanted?"

"Look at those boys go out there!" Tex hollered from the VIP booth of Florida International Speedway. His attention zeroed in on a blinding white Plymouth Superbird down below, proudly wearing '43' on his sides, and flaunting one of the wildest spoilers cars have ever seen. It stood taller than two cars on top of each other, but built razor thin. He also kept watch on a similar vehicle, a silver Pontiac Firebird simply adorned with the number '77'.

"And rounding the third turn we have Darrell Cartrip, The King, and Phoenix nose to nose!" Ken Squealer called into his microphone, "What a show!"

"Boogity, boogity, boogity!" Darrell yelled, "That dang Piston Cup is gonna be mine this year!"

"Aw, nah. I ain't lettin' you get one more before you retire," The King pulled forward a bit, "That beauty is mine," he smirked, "And Dinoco."

An engine came thundering behind them and Phoenix slipped between the other racers like the track was made of butter. He taunted the cars as he passed, "Hey, this ain't a parking lot!"

"You hear that?" The King shook his hood and rammed his accelerator, "Not on your life, Firebird!"

Darrell replied, "You've got it all wrong! I'm gonna show you two how it's reaaaally done! Just as soon as I-HEY!"

A racer from behind bumped his rear. Darrell's tail swung left to right and he cringed. Once he gained control, he opened his eyes to find a green car with a mustache scowling beside him.

"Now that I'm done with you," said the car, "All I got left are the two bird-cars."

"NOT so fast, Chick," Darrell clenched his teeth and raced on after him.

Ken Squealer squinted his eyelids focus on the pack leaders, "Uh oh, looks like some confrontation. Are we calling it a penalty? This wouldn't be the first time Hicks received one this season."

At the very front, Phoenix and The King mimicked each other's every move. If The King went low, so did Phoenix. If Phoenix braced his axles for a bump, The King caught it and did the same.

"You're runnin' a pretty decent race, boy," The King said, "Would be a shame for all that to go to waste."

"I know," Phoenix sucked his teeth, "I'll be sure to bring you tissues when you're crying in your interviews."

The King laughed, "Good, good."

The racers crossed over the starting line, bringing them into the final lap.

"We're coming into our very last turns, ladies and gentlecars!" said Ken. He bumped his microphone as he leaned over his desk, "Got a feeling this is going to be a close one!"

"C'mon," Chick said to himself, "MOVE. MOVE. MOVE."

Darrell glared at number 86's trunk. There was no way he could catch up in the next three turns and he knew it.

"I can smell the finish line from here," The King teased, "Can't you?"

Phoenix kept his eyes straight and his accelerator down to the metal. He lowered his body, letting the fast air fall over him. He cut through it, unlike The King, whose spoiler cut the air for him.

"Alright, Emily," Phoenix mumbled, "This one's for you, Pumpkin Spice."

"Two turns left!" Ken warned.

"Let me know if you can hear this, baby," Phoenix furrowed his eyelids and pulled his lips tight. He pushed his engine as hard as it could go, making it scream louder than the crowd. His metal shook against the speed. It made his bolts rattle.

"N-Nn-," The King wouldn't budge. He kept himself in the same place as Phoenix.

Just as Phoenix went to shift, static came in and out of his radio.

It made his bottom eyelid twitch. Every static buzz made him lose his focus more.

BBzzz...bzz..

"A-Augh-," Phoenix tried his best to keep on the racing line. It was bad enough he couldn't shake off The King.

BBBBzzzzz...ph-...Phoenix...bzz..

The Firebird's breath heaved from his efforts, gazing at the finish line in their final turn.

"Phoenix," said a man's voice over his radio. It was his crew chief, "Y-...bzzzz…daughter-"

Just then, Phoenix's eyes loosened up, "Chief?"

"Bzzz...pull o-...bzzzz...pull over...bbzzzz…yo-...-ur daughter."

"My daughter? Wh-h-!?" Phoenix leaned his steering to the left and let off his accelerator carefully so he didn't lose control trying to stop.

The King, Chick Hicks, and Darrell Cartrip effortlessly raced past him.

It was over.

Phoenix skid onto the grass, kicking blades up into the air. He steered toward pit lane and tried to control himself as he fishtailed all the way to his pit crew.

"And that's exactly when my life changed forever," Springwheel's voice tightened.

"Because you lost a Piston Cup?" asked Luke.

The history teacher couldn't help but laugh, though something in his tone didn't sound like he actually thought it was funny, "I-I lost something a Piston Cup will never be worth."

Jane inched closer, "Mister Springwheel...are you alright?"

After the pit crew threw on Phoenix's commuter tires, it didn't even take him more than fifteen minutes to be at Denise's front door.

He drifted into her driveway and skidded to a stop. His wheel bashed on the door over and over again until the previously broken door threw itself open.

Phoenix helped himself into her home without any hesitation, "DENISE."

His pupils constricted with fury, scanning the living room. He didn't see a Ford Tempo or a little Trans Am, but he did see a blue translucent recycling bag overflowing with empty bottles, "You USELESS son of a BIT-"

"WHO SAAAID YOU COULD COME IN?" asked a stumbling Ford Tempo. She swayed on her axles and locked eyes with the racer.

The Firebird pointed at the empty evidence in the living room, which Denise was desperately trying to dispose of, "I just got a CALL from the police in the middle of my RACE telling me that YOU called about MY daughter missing."

"Your daughter was out ALL NIIIGHT. You dropped her off and she didn't even say GOOD MOOORNING."

Phoenix's eyes opened so widely, his eyelids disappeared, "Sorry, WHEN did I drop her off? You picked HER up, Denise."

"I PICKED HER UP WHOOP-DEE-DOO," Denise flailed her tire around, "I drove her hooome and she never came out of her roooom," Denise pointed at him, "Yoooou turned her into a delinquent. LAAAAST NIGHT."

"You didn't pick her up last NIGHT," the Firebird revved his engine hard, "You took her two nights ago, IDIOT."

"So YOOU took my girl in the miDDLE of the night."

"I was preparing for a RACE, you twisted PIG," Phoenix yelled, "You mean to tell me SHE'S BEEN GONE FOR TWO DAYS?"

"NO she's been home with ME doing hER HOMEWORK," Denise went to turn away the second her voice cracked, "I bet if we call her right noooow she'll-"

The green in Phoenix's eyes deepened, "LISTEN to me," he pushed his nose up against Denise's, "Tell me where my daughter is or SO HELP ME."

Denise rammed him away, "I don't HAVE her."

Phoenix squeezed his brakes so tightly his tire rubber whistled against the floor, "What does that MEAN?"

"I LOOOOST HER."

Phoenix's fenders trembled, feeling his rpms rise to a boiling point. He pushed Denise into her living room and tossed her up against one of the walls. Denise's television rocked back and forth until it fell face down on the ground. The screen shattered and scattered all around them.

Phoenix tried to keep a stern face, but his body quaked so much that he couldn't hold his expression still, "What do you do mean you LOST her?"

Denise's breath trembled on his lips, looking him square in the eyes. She'd never seen him fuming like that before, "I-I," her fear turned to liquid and seeped from her windshield.

Phoenix spoke through his teeth, "Your tears even smell like pure moonshine."

"A-Adam, I didn't MEAN to losE HER."

He brought his tire under her chin and pressed it into her throat faster than the rest of her tears could fall, "NO. ONE. MEANS. TO."

Mister Springwheel cringed, hearing himself echo in his mind, "I called the police and told them e-everything. I told them she violated the court order. I told them she went missing under her care. I told them-"

"Mister Springwheel," said Murphy, "You...never saw her again?"

Springwheel brought his eyes to Jane's and simply didn't respond to Murphy.

96 hours later…

Hurricane Nicole's wind whipped heavy rainfall around Miami's skyline and toward the residential streets. The street signs danced against the heavy breeze. The stoplights swung back and forth like children on a playground. Darkness engulfed the sky, in the middle of the afternoon. The palm trees bent, praying they lived to stand through the storm, and the city's asphalt drowned in the rising sea.

Every car living in Miami was either out of town or locked away in their boarded up garages with zero electricity.

All but one car, whose axles trembled with every revolution of his tires. A Firebird who rolled aimlessly through the streets, pushing through an ocean as tall as his wheels which tried to swallow the living city. His speed never rose above five miles per hour and as he turned every corner, he spoke with the last bit of horsepower he had left, "P-..pumpkin..."

He looked left and right down any alley he rolled by, "Dad-...daddy's here.."

His tires tripped over a rock washed away in the street and sent his front end forward on his shocks. He dipped his nose down into the water, then pulled his face up before any water could get into his engine.

"E-Emily-..."

The deafening wind only muffled from the sound of police sirens in the distance. The Firebird brought himself to a stop and let the rushing water slide against his paint and metal. He blinked the rain and ocean water from his windshield.

A silhouette paused at the end of a street, followed by a blinding white spot light pointed right toward him. His eyelids squinted in the light, until the silhouette turned off his spotlight and came rolling toward him.

"Phoenix?"

The closer the silhouette became, the more his true height revealed itself; a 1976 Chevrolet Blazer illuminated in red and white lights, wearing Miami Police Department's paint and badge.

"Son," he said with a deep southern drawl, "You've been driving out here for days."

The officer studied the Phoenix's appearance. The whites of his windshield reddened from the salt water. The scrapes from debris in his paint were already gathering surface rust and his Piston Cup sponsor decals were all worn away or flapping off of him into the water.

"We've been lookin' all over for her, Springwheel," his voice softened, "It ain't good for you to be submerged in water for this long. You need to be alive for her or you're gonna get eaten alive by your own rust."

Adam didn't reply, he just looked up at the officer with helpless eyes.

"And you don't want her out here looking for you," the police SUV sighed, "I'm gonna drive you on home now. I don't wanna see you out here until the ocean goes back to where it came from."

"Sh-..She's-..," Adam's voice gurgled with pain, as if his vocal cords themselves were rusting too, "She's as tall as the water."

"Let's get you home," the officer pulled up beside him, "Turn around with me."

"L-Look what the water is doing to me...now think of her."

"Springwheel, you have to follow my order, or-"

"Or what?"

"I'll arrest you," he rolled closer, "Because then I'd know where you are and I'd know you're alive. And so will the rest of the country. Cars die in this kind of-"

Phoenix's body bucked forward and his jaw dropped. He gagged and his gas tank turned within him.

"Springwheel-," the officer lodged his tire underneath his side skirt to hold him above the water and keep him breathing, "You can't think like this in these situations. I've seen many children go missing and-"

"THIS IS MY CHILD," Adam screamed, "MY CHILD IS MISSING NOW," he shut his eyes and heaved forward.

The Blazer peeled his stare away from the vomit, "I understand...and that's more of a reason for you to relax. You're Phoenix Springwheel."

Phoenix shook his hood fast and violently, "L-Look around, m-man," his body shivered as the wind blew against the cold water on their metal. The officer cringed, feeling the sting of the temperature change.

"L-Look at us. I-If that's how you're holding up...a-and this is how I'm holding up," Adam looked right into the officer's eyes, "H-How long did you think Emily could h-hold on?"

The officer's mirrors sank, thinking about his words, but per his duty, he said the only thing he could say, "I think...that she's your daughter," he made sure to keep Emily's name in the present tense, "...and...I think that means she can rise like a Phoenix too."

One racing season later…

Adam's home was dressed in party decorations. Hanging in front of a bare kitchen wall, a large banner read: Happy Birthday

Next to the kitchen, being weighed down by stones wrapped up in gift paper, were bouquets of pink and blank balloons. Once inside, a birthday cake with rainbow sprinkles dropped over white frosting sat in the middle of the table.

The television played in the background as Adam finished wrapping the back of the sofa in red, yellow, and blue streamers.

"And here we are at the last turn!" Darrell Cartrip spoke, "For the first time donning the Dinoco sponsorship and for the FIRST racing announcement of my career it's-it-it's THE KING! The King has WON the PISTON CUP! CHICK HICKS FOLLOWING CLOSE BEHIND!"

Adam passed the television and turned it off. His paint job was back in its original, natural silver state with only a Phoenix decal over his left headlight cover. He turned his wheels and drove into the kitchen, keeping his eyes on the birthday cake until he stopped next to it. He stretched his wheel over the cake and placed one candle, hidden in his wheel well, deep into the center of the frosting.

"Happy biiirthday to yooou," he sang, as he lit a match, "Happy birthday to yooou," he brought the match to the candle and let the fire burn the wick. He shook out the match, then placed it down on a paper plate, "Happy biiirthday-"

His eyes moved up from the cake to the other side of the table, where a picture frame surround by a purple fender warmer, cradled the photo of a forest green, bright eyed Trans Am.

"-dear Emily," he pursed his lips and blew out the candle. The smoke swirled around the photo and up into the air, "Happy biiirthday to you."

He gazed at the happy young girl smiling back at him, "I loved you. I love you. And I'll love you more tomorrow."

Just then, Adam's house phone rang. His mirrors perked up and he wasted no time zooming over to it. He pulled it off of its base and listened, "H-Hello?"

"Phoenix?" a gentlecar's voice asked through the speaker.

"That's me, I'm here. I'm right here," his eyelids furrowed, hoping the phone call had to do with his daughter.

"It's Tex. Tex Dinoco."

He slumped down, "Oh...hello, Mister Tex."

"Not sure if you were watchin', but Dinoco just won a Piston Cup this season."

"Yeah, I saw."

"I wanted to let you know that I know you and The King both wanted this real bad. Unfortunately, life happens, and...well, it did happen."

"Mhm…," he glanced over at Emily's cake.

A silence fell over their line.

"...this season wasn't the same without you. Even the other racers missed you bein' around."

Adam nodded, "Yeah, I miss it. Most days, at least."

"I know it's her birthday. I'm sorry about your daughter. We've all been thinkin' bout you. I can't say I know how it feels-"

"I never want you to know how it feels."

"Right, right, but I want to offer you somethin' you deserve. I'm not sayin' it'll make you feel better, but The King and I were talking and we both believe this is the right thing to do. We here at Dinoco would like to give you a brand new Dinoco Blue paint job. You can keep your Phoenix decal you got there on your headlight, but we'd be honored to let you have it. You were a brilliant racer."

A small smile crept over his front bumper. In a way, he felt Emily was watching him, and somehow this was her way of showing it, "I accept."

Carburetor County, Arizona

1990

The school bell rang in Carburetor County High School. Young teenage cars came swarming into their classroom. Their chit chat followed all the way behind their desks as they waited for their teacher to arrive.

"And then I was like, 'go to the prom with you?' Hah! As if!" said one of the female sedans. Her friend chuckled.

"Let me see your tamagotchi," said a male coupe, "I can't believe you kept yours alive for that long."

The school bell rang once more, indicating the next classes have begun, and any student cruising in after that would be late. When the door nudged open, in came a panting Dinoco Blue 1982 Pontiac Firebird. He quickly moved to his desk and got his paperwork together.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, "I know what you're thinking. I know. No one means to. Anyway," he swatted the air and turned to the chalkboard behind him, "Welcome to your very first- or actually, heh. I should say welcome to my very first day of Racing History," he picked up a piece of chalk and carefully wrote his name and the class title on the board.

He turned to the class, "Before we begin, I'm going to take attendance. I'll take it once more before the class is over just in case anyone new drives in late. I know some of you may have been having trouble finding your classrooms all day today so-," he looked down at the list of student names on his desk, "When I call your name, let me know if you're here….Kevin?"

"Here!"

"Joseph?"

"Here."

"Steven?"

"Present."

"Vivienne?"

"I'm here!"

"Andres?"

"Mhm."

"Samantha?"

"Present."

"Christine?"

"Right here!"

"Ben?"

"Here."

"James?"

"Uh-huuuh."

"Destiny?"

"Also here."

"Selena?"

"Preseeent."

"Alright," the Firebird pushed the attendance roster off to the side, "My name is Mister Springwheel and I'll be teaching you some of the most fascinating history you'll ever hear. I expect you all to work hard because I believe you can do great things and I want to see you do those great things. I thought about it for a while. I wondered what I could possibly start with, but then it hit me. Today, we'll be talking about-"

The classroom door opened again and a beige female 1990 Acura Legend cautiously drove inside. Her wide eyes peeked over at the sea of students as she pulled up to the teacher's desk, "Is this racing history?" she asked.

"Yes, it is," Mister Springwheel nodded, "You can park behind any desk that has space. We're just starting our lesson now."

"Alright."

He leaned forward and pulled the attendance roster back over to him, "I thought I called everyone on the list. That's odd."

"Oh, that's probably because I just registered."

"That would do it," Mister Springwheel picked up a pencil and brought it to a blank line, "I'll write your name in then. By the next class you'll be on the list in print."

"Emily," she said.

Mister Springwheel's pencil didn't move. He looked over at the young car, "...what was your name?"

"My name is Emily," she repeated with a smile.

"Emily," Mister Springwheel gestured to the classroom desks with an open wheel, "It's...good to have you here."