Disclaimer, as before: I own Henry and nothing else. All "Cars" related characters and indicia belong to Disney and Pixar, and may they make a sequel.

Henry had followed Doc Hudson back to the clinic—mostly out of a lack of anything better to do—and was sitting in his bay glowering at the floor and tracing triangles on it with his right front tire when the doctor pushed open the connecting door. "Hey. Get out here, I need you."

"….me?"

"Yes, you, hotshot. What's your range?"

Henry blinked at him. "Huh?"

"Your range," Doc had repeated. "How far can you go on a tankful?"

He blinked again. "Uh…about three fifty?"

"Good enough. Saddle up, son. I need you to run out to Flagstaff for me."

Henry stopped himself from blinking a third time. Doc nodded. "Kid's in bad shape. He needs oxygen, which I got here, but the closest hospital that has the medicine he needs is Flagstaff. I called ahead. They'll be ready for you."

"…and you trust me to run there and back and not just head off into the desert?"

Doc laughed—a sound Henry wasn't used to. "If you were gonna run you'd have done it already. Head on up to Flo's and fill up, and get Luigi to check your tires." He turned away from the door, back to his patient, just assuming Henry would do as he'd asked—and, despite all his old tired mental tracks, Henry did. He caught a glimpse of the Barracuda as he headed out, and swallowed; Doc was doing something to his manifold, and the orange car was still choking.

He hurried up the main street. The pileup had been cleared away, bits of chromed plastic and flakes of metallic paint the only evidence of the crash. Flo's V8 Café was impossible to mistake, and he turned in to the forecourt and found himself being Looked At.

"Um, hi," he said. Four pairs of eyes followed him as he rolled up to a pump: a purple and flame-coloured Impala, a low-slung Motorama honey in a seafoam and cream tutone job, an old Willys Jeep, and a microbus with hippie flowers. "I know this is hard to believe, but Doc told me to come here and get filled up. He wants me to go to Flagstaff to get medicine for—" He couldn't say 'Snot Rod.' "—for his patient."

The Motorama came over to him. "Ho-nee, it sure is good to see you on your wheels again, stranger. You even gave Doc a scare!"

Henry swallowed. "Thank you, ma'am. Sorry if I've caused you trouble. My name's Henry, and I'm….grateful for all your town has done for me."

"None of that, soldier," said the Jeep. "Good to see you up and about. Doc wants you to go to Flagstaff, you go to Flagstaff."

He had to stop himself from saluting, half-amused, half-taken aback. "Yes, sir. I will."

Someone behind him pulled in with a screech of tires. "What's going on, guys?"

Henry slowly turned to see a gleaming scarlet racecar, flake-crimson metallic paint and a wide white side-oval like one of the first 'Vettes, regarding him with undisguised curiosity. He had a moment of helpless self-consciousness—what must he look like, dented and battered as he was, with his original dark-red paintjob dusted and marred with his journeys?—but pushed it away, clearing his throat. "….Lightning McQueen?"

The racecar dipped slightly to his right; light glinted off the smooth curve of his wheelarch. It was his signature move; but he wasn't plastered in stickers, and he didn't bother to say "Ka-chow!"

"That's me. You're the Mustang Mater brought in a few days back. What's your name?"

Huh, Henry thought. He was in the presence of one of the greatest living legends of racing and all he could damn well think about was getting filled up and getting on the road to Flagstaff….he must still be sick. "I'm Henry. Thank you for, um, all you've done for me. This whole town."

…I feel like such an idiot.

"Hey," said McQueen easily, "no problem. You feeling better now?"

"Yes, thank you. But Doc asked me to run to Flagstaff for him. Well, for a patient."

McQueen's blue eyes narrowed. "Yeah?"

"For the Plymouth. The orange one. He's pretty sick." Henry met his gaze.

"…aren't you still recovering, though? I could do it. Hey, Flo, gimme a blue-can special, I got to get to Flagstaff in a hurry."

Henry continued to eye him. "Mr. McQueen—I really don't mean to be disrespectful, but you're a racecar and I'm street-legal, plus I just came that way, the road's familiar."

There was a moment that should not have been as taut as it was, before McQueen abruptly shrugged. "Okay. If Doc wanted you to go, I guess you should go. Be careful, though?"

"Oh, I will." Henry felt the fuel pump's nozzle nudge at his filler cap, and flipped it aside. "Thank you."

He still felt strange, even as he filled up and rolled over to Luigi's Casa della Tires to get some new rubber. Strange, as if he were following a script he had never read and never heard of but following it nonetheless. Why the hell was he doing this, anyway?

But he couldn't not. Once he was out on old 66, he let himself wind—and damned if he didn't feel better than he had in years. Strong, and powerful, and fast, and absolutely steady. Rock-steady, as he had been back when Dayne had been there. He had a purpose, and he would fulfill it.

After the Mustang's exit from Radiator Springs, riding on four of Luigi's best blackwalls (bought not without some protest from the Fiat, who still maintained that whitewalls were the only tires ever to wear) there had been some little commotion in the town. McQueen, after that one odd moment where he and the dark-red Mach 1 had stared at one another, seemed to have the Mustang's back. "Hey," he was saying, as Sheriff and Sarge and Ramone argued, "Doc told him to go. He must have a reason."

The fact that most of the town's residents were gathered at Flo's was not lost on Wingo, Boost and DJ as Mater shooed them down the road from the impound on their way to their various community service jobs. Boost slowed down—they were all limping with their boots on, but this didn't stop Wingo from plowing into him, nor DJ from plowing into Wingo. All three immediately began yelling imprecations at one another.

"Hey, hey, hey!" yelled the Sheriff. "Enough of that! You boys settle down!"

"They done did it to theyselves," Mater pointed out. "Wa'nt me."

"I can see that!" Sheriff pulled around and eyed the three. Boost eyed him right back, trying to look superior. It didn't work very well.

"Yo, what's goin' on?" he demanded. "How come y'all out here instead of sellin' tourist crap?"

Lizzie was luckily asleep, but the rest of the town's residents bridled. "Listen, youngster, what you call 'tourist crap' is a vital part of this town's economy!" Sarge snapped.

"That, and popping dumbass speeders," Ramone put in, "specially ones with paintjobs so ugly you could see 'em from Venus, man."

"Hey, man, harsh." Fillmore was vaguely following the conversation. McQueen had to suppress a chuckle at that as he turned to look at the three tuners, all now slightly dented.

"How's Snot Rod?" Wingo asked, without meaning to. Both the other tuners looked at him.

"He'll be fine," said the Sheriff, but almost immediately Fillmore cut in. "That Mustang dude went drivin' off to Flagstaff to get stuff for him. Some kind of medicine or somethin'."

Boost narrowed his eyes. "What? What Mustang?"

"That red one. He was all sick and stuff. I guess he got better now." Fillmore nodded, complacently.

"Dude, that guy outside of Flagstaff was a red Must—" DJ began. Boost cut him off.

"Yeah, okay, whatever. You just better fix Snot Rod up right so we can get outta here." He glowered at the Radiator Springs townspeople until they shrugged and went back to their various breakfasts.

Sally rolled into the clinic as noon struck. "How is he?"

"Not great." Doc had an oxygen hose hooked up to the Barracuda's intakes, and it seemed to be helping a little. "His entire air system is inflamed, and it's gone down into his carbs, past the float bowls into the jets themselves; he's running a temperature. It's these goddamn aftermarket kits, Sally, if he hadn't had this stupid blower put in he'd never have had these problems. I've tested him for allergies, and he's positive on a couple of pollens, but—" The Hornet shrugged. "Systems like this shove more air in than the engine can handle, and yeah, you'll get power, but you'll also get a hell of a lot of road-crud in there that is going to set up this kind of thing."

Snot Rod was sleeping—or unconscious, Sally couldn't tell—hanging on his lift, wheels dangling. She rolled up to him and gently touched her bumper to his side—and pulled away. "Chrysler, Doc, he's burning up!"

"I know. It gets any worse, I'm throwing a tarp over him and having Red cover it with cold water. But if that East Coast hotshot can do what I think he can, I'll have something by tonight that can knock out his infection."

On the lift, Snot Rod began to cough again, a heavy choking cough that made Sally wince and Doc roll up quickly to turn the oxy flow to high. He opened his eyes a little, and she was struck by the fact that they were a rather pretty light green. Without the vast blower in the way, she could see his face.

"Hey," she said, softly. "It's going to be okay. Henry's going out to get your medicine, and he'll be back tonight."

The pale-green eyes widened slightly. "H-Henry's doing that? For me?"

"That's right, kid," said Doc, wiping down the manifold with a cold cloth. "You're going to be just fine."

"…where is everybody?" the Barracuda asked, sniffling. "Wingo and, and Boost and DJ?"

"They're working." Doc put down the cloth. "Do you want to have them come and visit?"

Snot Rod nodded, and coughed a little more. "Can I?"

"I expect something can be worked out," Sally said. "Let me go talk to them. Feel better, okay?"

The fact that the car now lying on Doc's lift was one of the Delinquent Road Hazards—and that the 'friends' he wanted to see were the other three DRH—didn't seem to signify. Sally looked at Doc for his okay, and the Hudson nodded. "Not for long, okay? Ten minutes, max. He needs his rest."

Sally smiled. "All right, Doc. Thanks."

Driving for a purpose felt a hell of a lot different. Henry had slid back onto the interstate and found himself in the far-left lane, easily flickering in and out of traffic. Sure, he had the time to get to Flag and back before nightfall, but he wanted—since it was for that kid, that poor dumb kid with the cheater slicks and the stupid blower—he wanted to get back as soon as he could.

Driving on his own for so long, Henry had learned how not to get caught. He walked his V-8 up to a cop-safe seventy-three, and didn't swerve more than he absolutely had to. Time after time he found himself behind tractor-trailers, and time after time he had to stop himself from roaring past them on the shoulder in his hurry to get to Flagstaff. He let himself shoot the corridor a few times, roaring between two cruising trailers and neatly slotting back into the left-lane traffic.

Several times tuners passed him; a couple of Civics, none quite as tricked-out as Wingo, and a Supra with NOS tanks and a glowing violet paintjob. Henry watched as the Supra dicked in and out of moving traffic, rolling at least two minivans off onto the shoulder, and smirked to himself as a police cruiser roared past just a little later. Go, cops, he thought. Bag them road hazards.

What was he, though, he wondered. And definitely what was little Colin back there?

He pushed aside the thought. The sun rolled over the sky as he drove, and when he got to Flagstaff in the early afternoon they were waiting for him at the hospital.

"You Henry?" asked one ambulance.

"That's me. Doc Hudson sent me from Radiator Springs."

"You got a helluva ride ahead of you, kid, but you're doin' the right thing," said the other ambulance, nudging a cooler into Henry's trunk. He reached up with a tire and slapped a red flasher-bubble on Henry's roof, as well: as he pulled back, the light started to revolve. "Okay, that's what the Doc asked for. Good luck, and go go GO!"

Henry went.

Snot Rod—Colin, actually, Colin Hemiway—shifted uncomfortably on his lift. It felt strange not to have his tires on the ground; not that it wasn't nice to have his weight taken for him, to let his shocks and springs hang easy, but it was…odd. He'd only been up on a lift once before, and that was when the blower and pipes were put in.

It hurt so badly to breathe—and it was difficult. With the blower it had been okay; even when he'd had trouble breathing before, and he had, many a time, he'd just push the valves wide open and gasp in air through his tunnel-ram, and that had helped; but even before they'd rolled that old 'Stang outside Flagstaff he'd felt a nasty itching in his carbs that hadn't gone away. His sneezes, normally not so bad, had really started to hurt; and as they blew through Radiator Springs he'd tried to ignore his temp gauge flicking past Hi Normal into Red.

When he'd told Boost he didn't feel good it had been true, but by the time they got back off the interstate and halfway to the little town he'd felt miserable. Breathing was difficult—his carbs felt huge, choked, swollen—and he couldn't stop coughing, or sneezing.

The doctor had taken one look at him and nudged him up onto the lift, and pulled his blower cowling and made some angry noises at what he'd seen. Snot Rod had been barely conscious, hardly feeling the doctor's tools as the old Hudson had examined him. There had been a bit of blackness, and then his friends had been there, and he'd, he'd said something.

Then nothing, for a while: just the doctor doing painful things, and the struggle to breathe. And then, in the night, when he'd woken, choking, desperately trying to breathe through the coughing fit, someone else had been there. Someone with a quiet, kind, tired voice, who had nudged up against him and reassured him, and told him to take deep breaths, and to wiggle his tires—and the horrible cough had let go.

He remembered rolling the old 'Stang—a year older than his own model—outside Flagstaff. Boost had been in A Mood, and DJ was playing his fave tunes on repeat, Wingo and he had been following—and they'd come on the Stang in the middle lane, clearly running hot and loose, and Boost and Wingo had dropped back. "Hey," Boost had said. "Let's roll this dinosaur. He ain't payin' attention anyhow."

Snot Rod had been feeling too ill to say anything at all, and just dropped back, swerving, into position: and Boost and Wingo had flanked the Mustang, Boost easing him over and over and over and Wingo dropping back just long enough for DJ to nip in and nudge his rear quarter panel—and the rest had been watching. The Mustang's offside wheels hit the rumble strip, and then the soft shoulder, and he had spun out and flipped twice, and come to rest on his tires again in a huge cloud of dust.

"Awesome," Boost had said. "Totally Chryslerin' awesome. Let's burn."

Snot Rod had sneezed, and almost burned ahead of them, but managed to keep it back, and slipped into his usual position at the end of the line. He hurt all over, and oh, but the sneezes hurt, hurt, deep in his manifold. His whole blower felt thick and clogged with congestion, and every breath he took felt like he was drawing it through knives.

Then they'd come to Radiator Springs, and he and Boost had burned the hell on through, leaving Wingo and DJ behind when the Sheriff had peeled out behind them.

He rocked on his lift, miserable, coughing thickly. It hurt. Everything hurt. He wanted to have that kind voice back again, telling him it didn't matter what his name was. That it was okay. That he'd be all right. That….that he could be something other than Snot Rod.

They had said that Henry had gone to Flagstaff to bring him medicine. That he had the, the biggest tank or something. Snot Rod thought it might be something a little different, but didn't say anything. A little later a herd of translucent tractors had come roaring through the clinic, overturning equipment and hooting witlessly, and he'd tried to get them to go away but it hadn't worked and he'd coughed and coughed and then someone had pulled a tarp over him and it had gone dark and a coldness had flooded all over him, like a beautiful spring rain, and he'd been able to catch his breath, almost; and the coldness had kept raining, and he'd drifted off in the middle of it.

Henry pulled back into Radiator Springs as the moon rose. Exhausted, and almost empty, he rolled up to Doc's clinic, and blew his horn.

Below the garage doors of the clinic water was seeping into the gutters, and he ached, shuddering on his wheels, knowing that the kid inside was sick enough to need a dousing-as he had. Even as he watched, the door wheeled up and the fire engine backed out, gave him one distrustful glance, and scooted up the street.

Doc came out. "Good timing, son. You got what I need?"

"I hope so. In the trunk, they, they just shoved it in there and told me to run. I ran." He popped the trunk for Doc, and watched as the Hornet lifted out a styrofoam cooler.

"……..Can…can I stay with him?" He didn't even know why he was asking.

Doc eyed him. "Yeah, I guess you can. Come on, son. I may need you before morning."

He followed the Hudson inside, shaking with exhaustion, but wanting to see what he'd brought from Flagstaff, and what it would do for the Barracuda.