Aron Art had grease under his nails and a name that sounded like it belonged to somebody else. At eighteen, he was already the closest thing Callywonka had to a full-time mechanic, which wasn't saying much. The town had one garage, one diner, and one barber who doubled as the mayor. If anything broke, it ended up in front of Aron sooner or later.
He lived above the shop in a room that smelled faintly of rubber. Some nights he swore the whole building sighed when he turned the lights off. Not the kind of sigh you make after dinner, but the kind that says we've been here too long.
The cars had started talking to him on a Tuesday.
It wasn't a dramatic reveal. No lightning storm, no ghostly voices. He was sweeping near a '92 Impala when he heard something like a grumble from the lift. He thought it was the radio until he remembered Henry, the shop's owner, never turned it on.
"About time someone fixed that belt," the Impala muttered.
Aron froze, broom still in hand. "Excuse me?"
The bumper flexed like a frown. "I said: about time. He drives me like I'm disposable."
Aron looked around the garage. Empty, except for Henry asleep in his chair. "Cars don't talk."
"Yeah, and kids don't lose their whole family in a crash either. Weird things happen, kid."
Aron dropped the broom. For a second, he thought about asking more questions, but he didn't. He just walked across the street to the diner, as if a sandwich might help.
The diner was a square building that had been white once. Inside, the booths had lumpy seats and the air carried a tired smell of coffee. He sat down, menu unopened. When the waitress came by, he said, "Pancakes."
Ten minutes later, she slid a plate in front of him. Meatloaf. Mashed potatoes on the side.
"I didn't order this."
She shrugged. "It's what you needed."
He stared at the plate. "What I needed was pancakes."
"Uh-huh." She walked off.
The receipt sat face-down on the table. He flipped it over and read the order: PANCAKES. But beneath it, in faint type he didn't remember seeing before, were three words: Check the tires.
Aron folded the slip and slid it into his jacket pocket. Then he ate the meatloaf, because hunger didn't leave much room for arguments.
When he went back to the garage, the Impala's headlights clicked on like an impatient stare. "Back already?"
Aron pulled the receipt out and held it up. "Does this mean anything to you?"
The car's engine ticked as if it was thinking. "Maybe. Tires tell you more than people think. Where they've been, what they've carried."
Aron squinted at it. "Did you know my family's Oldsmobile?"
The car gave a low chuckle, if you could call it that. "Knew of it. Stiff suspension, always bragged about its safety features. Thought it was better than the rest of us."
He swallowed. "Did it… want to crash?"
The Impala let the silence hang. "Some of us get tired. Some of us decide enough is enough."
Aron leaned against the workbench, jaw tight. He'd seen the wreck—metal twisted, glass everywhere. Everyone inside gone. He hadn't been with them that day because he overslept. That thought clung to him like oil you couldn't scrub off.
The receipt crinkled in his pocket again. When he pulled it out this time, new words had appeared on the back: Road trip. Start soon.
Aron glanced at the Impala. The car's headlights dimmed and brightened like a shrug.
"You're coming with me," Aron said.
The Impala gave a weary groan. "Figures."
Out on the street, Callywonka looked the same as always: quiet, crooked houses, and a sky that didn't care what lived beneath it. But to Aron, the town suddenly felt smaller, like the walls were leaning in.
For the first time since the crash, he thought about leaving. Not just to escape, but to see what waited on the road.