Disclaimer, as before: Cars and all related characters and indicia are the property of Disney and Pixar. Henry is mine.

Days had passed.

The DRH had been working as diligently as they ever worked at anything other than pissing off fellow motorists, and even Doc had to admit that the roads looked beautiful, Lizzie's store sparkled, and the tracks of Sarge's boot camp were raked smooth every morning. He'd not bothered to ask the three why they'd changed their tune. He could tell.

They wanted to get the hell out of here.

Snot Rod, otherwise known as Colin, pending further nickname genesis, was recovering nicely. Doc let him out of the clinic for a short afternoon drive three days after his fever had broken, and was pleased to see that he came back on time and only wheezing slightly. While Colin had been out of it Doc had taken the time to adjust his ridiculous blower intake, so that it still looked about as terrifying as it had before, but the tunnel ram intake forced about two-thirds as much air into his carbs, and did it through three new sets of hypoallergenic filters. He'd probably always have a weak air system, but with the modifications he shouldn't be quite so vulnerable to dangerous infections.

Doc shook himself out of a brown study, aware that the Mustang had said something. Despite his full recovery, Henry had elected to hang around a little longer, and Doc was happy to put him up at the clinic, aware that Henry wasn't exactly the social butterfly sort to enjoy much questioning by townsfolk.

"…what'd you say, son?"

"Nothing important." Henry stretched lazily and settled himself. "Just that I wonder what those kids are going to do next, really. They're trying so hard to prove something to someone, and I'm not sure any of them know what and to whom."

"That's some deep college-boy talk," Doc said, smiling. "You're right. Adolescent rebellion at its most pure and distilled. If we asked them what exactly it is they're rebelling against, at least one of 'em would say—"

"—'whaddaya got,'" Henry finished. "Yeah, I know. I feel ancient. But they have one redeeming quality, anyway, they stuck around for their friend. How's he doing, anyhow?"

Over in the far bay of the clinic Colin sat sleeping, his breath no longer coming in those snory gasps. "He'll do. He's not ever going to be terribly well, but he'll do nicely if he learns to take some care. He looks up to you, y'know."

"Heh," Henry said. "I never expected to have any of that sort of responsibility. I dunno if I can live up to it."

"Anyone who could do that breakneck run to Flagstaff should have no trouble handling a little hero-worship, kid." Doc smiled at him. "I saw you out on the dirt track today. Pretty hot stuff."

Henry went a slightly deeper shade of red. "It's nothing, I'm out of practice. Haven't done dirt racing in, oh, damn, must be a year. Over a year."

"You still slammed it," Doc told him. "You got the instinct for the powerslide in the corners. A lot of racers never get that, their whole lives. Maybe you want to take Colin there out with you one of these days. Might do him some good."

Henry blinked, and stared at the old Hudson. "You think?" The same thought had occurred to him, been dismissed, and kept coming back like an ice cube pushed under the surface of a lake. "I don't know if it would be good for him, you know, with his breathing and all."

"Eh, he has to get back into it somehow. And really, if he had different tires—" both of them smiled to think of the gigantic cheater slicks on the Barracuda's rear axle—"he could probably give you a run for your money, at least in the sprints. Give him some confidence, you know. Let him be good at something other than following that tiresome Eclipse."

The thought of the other three Delinquent Road Hazards on a dirt track made Henry laugh, a deep warm mellow sound. "I'll think about it. Thanks, Doc."

It rained that afternoon, massive heavy thunderheads building up atop the bluff and throwing down enough water to make the whole desert go green for a week or so. Henry stayed out in it, revelling in the wonderfully odd sensation of icy cold raindrops combined with a warm road, and in the indescribable scent of hot asphalt in a downpour. He was feeling something close to young again, and didn't mind how silly he must look doing donuts down the main drag of Radiator Springs in the pouring rain.

More and more these days he was thinking of Dayne—but it wasn't the bitter miserable sort of thought he was used to. He could remember now how she'd laughed at him when he complained about potholes or take-away fuel from roadside stands, how she'd snuggled up next to him in the darkness just before dawn, condensation beading her beautiful lines in a thousand tiny little jewels. Remembering how beautiful she had been was no longer actively painful, perhaps in some part because he felt that she was somehow still with him, as if she had never really gone away.

* * *

It took two days for the dirt track outside of town to dry out to the point where Henry felt comfortable running it, and by the time it did Colin was making his first exploratory longer drives out of the clinic and around the town. Most of the time Wingo and Boost were with him, when he was out; DJ was still busily helping re-grade the road surfaces for Sarge's boot camp. This morning, however, all three of the other tuners were sleeping in, and Henry was the only one to see the Barracuda creep out of the clinic, tentatively, and look around.

"Hey, kid," he said mildly. He was parked off the road watching the colours change as the early sun moved across the sky. "How you feeling?"

"Pretty good, I guess." Colin rolled over to him, looking more than a little uncertain. "I can breathe better. Um. Henry. Thanks."

"Hmm?"

"For, y'know. Everything. You've been really cool." He wiggled his right front tire, digging a little hole in the reddish dirt. "Even after we rolled you."

Henry chuckled. "Forget the roll, kid. Seriously forget it. Am I even dented?" He leaned over, displaying his roof, which had in fact been banged out to its original contours whilst he was unconscious and raving about eyes like the bluest sky, and shimmied a little to let the early sun glint on the metal-flake paint. "Anyhow, you're very welcome and I'm glad you're back on your wheels, and what would you say to trying out the old dirt track outside of town today? If you feel up to it, I mean."

Colin's vivid orange paint didn't go very well with his astonished expression. "You mean it?"

"Nah, I'm yanking your CV boot. Course I mean it, kid. But as it's a dirt track you'll need some different tires. I bet you Luigi has something that'd fit."

"Oh." The Barracuda looked intensely self-conscious, and Henry couldn't stop himself from leaning over and nudging him with his bumper.

"Nothing wrong with those you've got, but they're asphalt-specific. Hell, I'll need another set myself, these are highway tires. You ever raced dirt-track before?"

"Um. When I was a kid, but not really since…"

Since he got his mods. Henry nodded. "Fair enough. We'll take it easy, but I think it'd be good for you to get back into action. Fresh air, all that good stuff, right?"

It was difficult not to be aware of the slightly awed look in those pale-green eyes, but Henry was trying. He had a lot of experience in not paying attention to things.

Luigi did, in fact, have other tires. Luigi was even convinced to lend Colin a whole set of mounted dirt-track racers; Henry had a quiet word with the Fiat while Colin was trying them on, and there wasn't any question raised of payment when the Barracuda asked if he could give them a trial run up and down the street. Henry's credit was still good.

Colin looked very different without the massive dragster tires. Sleeker, sharper, something close to classic. Henry considered, and thought that on the whole he rather liked the original version; there was something inexplicably charming about the slicks and the way they jacked up his chassis until his nose was almost pointed at the ground. He was wriggling the new tires as if he wasn't sure they fit right, and Henry realized it would be the first time in years he had design-basis equipment on. Must feel strange.

"You look like a million bucks, kid. Still feeling okay?"

"Um, yeah. I'm just used to….looking down at the road a lot more." Colin gave him a shy smile. "Guess this is how normal cars feel. –I mean that's a good thing."

"Yeah, we normal cars are pretty awesome, all right." Henry grinned at him. "Come on, I want to see how you handle the track."

One good thing about the rain was the fact that it would've laid some of the dust, at least initially, and therefore this wouldn't be too miserably uncomfortable for the Barracuda. He hoped. Doc's new filters should really help him breathe better, but he was still hoping the dust didn't hurt his intakes. He took it slow on the way out of town—most of the residents were still sleepily trundling about their morning routine, and didn't pay them much attention.

Henry had run this track a couple of times on his own, and once or twice with people watching; he had a pretty good understanding of where the difficult bits were and where one needed to start paying really close attention to one's drift. It was possible to get up over a hundred thirty on the near-vertical curved bluff wall—the problem was then maintaining control when coming back to earth, and judging the timing right in order to start the turn into the third corner early enough. He pulled off by the track and looked over at the Barracuda.

"Okay, Colin. You've played with a dirt track before. You want the first round or should I go first?"

"I'll go." His pale-green eyes were determined, if rather large and worried, and he wriggled his tires again. "Just….if I do something dumb…..don't tell the guys?"

"Scout four-by-four's honor." Henry saluted him. "Show me what you got."

Colin lit his engine, the eight pipes roaring, and settled closer to the ground, looking determined. Henry could see him mentally counting down, and when he hit zero, he took off.

It was impressive to watch. He himself was pretty fast, but he was heavier than the 'Cuda and took longer to accelerate; Colin was lower and longer, and stuck to the ground much more easily than he did. Still, it occurred to him as he watched the bright orange speck getting rapidly smaller, Colin wasn't necessarily used to his own ground-effects and aerodynamics without those ridiculous back tires, and this might possibly be a problem.

In point of fact he managed. Henry watched—and listened—as he roared up onto the vertical curved wall and as he came down again, not scraping his chassis too badly on the ground, and hurtled around the second turn. Now they'd get to see whether he really had the makings of a dirt-track star or if Henry was going to be chewed out royally when he went back to town to fetch Mater and his tow cable.

He hadn't been this tense in a long time, staring at the rapidly accelerating cloud of dust following the Barracuda, calculating in the back of his mind whether he'd make the turn in time, and whether he'd react to the skid appropriately, and….

Colin was coming into the turn faster than Henry had, and….hell, he was turning too sharply too late, and he lost traction in all four tires at once—he was close enough now for Henry to register the terror in his eyes—he was skidding toward the precipice—

"Turn right!" Henry yelled. "Hard right! Now!"

He could see the flash of light from the rims as Colin reversed his front tires, and almost immediately lost him in the cloud of dust as he began the drift. Cursing violently, Henry began to roll down to the edge of the track to see if he could make out how far down the ravine the Barracuda had fallen, when the dustcloud shivered and broke in two—with Colin roaring out of it, in control once again, wide-eyed and going quite a lot faster than he himself had managed out of that turn.

He cut the speed, though, and rolled up to Henry, panting and coughing dryly. "Did you…see that?" he demanded. "Did you see me?"

"I saw." Henry leaned over and nudged him gently, and was surprised—and not displeased—when Colin huddled suddenly against him, shutting his eyes. "I saw, kid. That was damn good for your first shot at this track. –I heard Lightning McQueen ran right the hell off the road several times in a row when he tried it."

"R-really?" Colin sounded shaky, but he also sounded as if he was beginning to be proud of himself.

"Really. And I nearly went over. That's a nasty third turn and you did it very well." He smiled a bit. "How're you feeling? Doc will strip me to the frame if I've set your recovery back."

"'m okay." He coughed. "It's just…dusty. I feel good, Henry, really, I haven't done anything that awesome in a long time. How did you know to do that weird opposite turn thing?"

"Practice and dumb luck. I did it by mistake once and found that it actually worked." He grinned. "Here, now that you've had your turn, let me show off."

Let's try not to crater, shall we? he thought, and shook himself a bit, rolling up to the chain they used as a start and finish line. It had been so long since he'd felt truly well that he was still extremely aware of not hurting all over, of not feeling sick and aching and exhausted, and a little part of him was jumping at the chance to show off properly. He couldn't do this for Doc; it would feel silly, childish. In fact nobody else in the whole town but the Barracuda would feel like a suitable audience.

Henry flicked his throttle wide open, letting his engine roar, heating up the dual carbs, feeling the little pleasant itch as the metal expanded and settled, and dropped into first. His dirt-track tires bit into the ground and catapulted him forward in what would have been a dangerously uncontrolled surge if he hadn't been completely prepared for it: he let his tach creep up sharply before upshifting, and he was in fourth by the time he made it to the bluff wall. Down to third for the transition to semi-vertical, feeling the stresses all through his frame, the drift of centrifugal force working against the pull of gravity, and up to fourth and fifth again for the second turn and the straightaway.

He was going quickly enough now—a hundred and twenty—that he became briefly airborne on some of the larger bumps, and his shocks and struts complained loudly at this ill-treatment, but he was having far too much fun to care, and concentrated on the upcoming turn—and cut his steering rack sharply to the right as he worked off the throttle, again very aware of the conflicting forces in charge of his immediate fate. The spinning front wheels worked to cut his forward momentum even as his back wheels bit into the dirt and thrust him round the curve; he let the front wheels flirt gently from right to left and just as they found purchase again he pulled the throttle open and roared through the last of the turns, coming to rest in a cloud of dust with a bright and idiotic grin.

Colin was staring at him, eyes wide. He beamed at the Barracuda, wiping dust away from his prow with a tire. "Not too bad for an amateur, hey?"

"That was amazing." Colin's voice was soft, honestly impressed.

"Nah, you want to see amazing, you should see Doc Hudson out here. He's the Fabulous Hudson Hornet, after all. Pretty much the best of his time." He noticed that Colin was wheezing a little, and leaned over to nudge him. "C'mon, kid, let's go get something to drink, this dust is killing me. But I think you ought to go on with this. It's something you're good at, and that you could be even better at with more practice."

"You think so?"

"I do." Henry smiled. "And to prove it I'll even buy you a quart of the expensive oil, not that synthetic mess."

Colin smiled a smile nobody familiar with the Delinquent Road Hazards would have associated with him, and followed the Mustang back toward town.