"You would drive, usually," Naoto says, "but considering your injury..."
Yousuke eyes the car dubiously. Wonders if it's gold, or just painted. "Seriously?" he says. "I don't even have a decent bike."
There is something familiar, though, about the vehicle, the motor's hum. Naoto's driving, but Yousuke can almost feel the wheel himself, beneath his palms. Gloves, he thinks, I'd wear gloves. Pull the stick. A cover, for rain—
It's calming, somehow. The memories, the skills—they're still there, under the surface, even if he can't remember them.
Maybe he can do this job, after all.