Aron woke up to the sound of something tapping his door. Not knocking—tapping, like a coin against wood. When he opened it, no one was there. Just a folded diner receipt, slipped flat against the floor. The words weren't an itemized list this time. They were typed in the same faint block letters he'd seen before:
FUEL UP. DON'T LOOK BACK.
Aron stared at it while brushing his teeth, then stuck it to the bathroom mirror with grease tape. Instructions or threats—he wasn't sure yet.
Downstairs, the garage creaked like it was stretching its joints. Henry still wasn't in, so Aron had the place to himself. The Impala's headlights blinked on and off in the corner.
"You look like you dreamed about math homework," the car said.
"I don't remember dreams," Aron said.
"Must be nice. I relive potholes every night."
A minivan groaned from the next bay. "If anybody's listening, I'm still sticky. Those kids left juice boxes wedged in my carpet, and nobody's vacuumed since Halloween."
"Try being a truck with an owner who only plays breakup songs," the pickup muttered. "I've been forced to cry on the inside for four years."
Aron picked up the broom. "So all of you have been waiting for me to… tune in?"
"You're late to the conversation," said the Impala. "But at least you showed up."
He tightened a belt, swapped oil, and listened. The cars weren't just complaining—they were confessing. Every spill, every driver quirk, every resentment soaked into their frames. Aron couldn't tell if it was funny, tragic, or both.
By nine, his stomach told him to cross to the diner.
Inside, he sat at the same booth and decided he was going to beat the system. "Scrambled eggs," he said when the waitress walked by. "Light pepper. Rye toast, exactly one pat of butter. Half a sausage, no ketchup. Coffee black. A side of sliced apples. And listen carefully—absolutely no meatloaf."
She didn't write a word. "Okay."
Ten minutes later she set down a peanut butter sandwich with two aspirin on a saucer and a small glass of water.
Aron stared at it. "This is not eggs."
"It's what you need," she said. "Take the pills with water, not coffee."
"I didn't order coffee."
"Good." She walked away.
He bit into the sandwich. It was fine. He flipped the receipt. Instead of a price, another message waited: ROAD LEADS WEST.
Aron raised his hand. The waitress leaned over.
"This a map or a fortune cookie?" he asked.
"Could be either," she said.
"Do you remember my family's Oldsmobile?"
She wiped a circle off the table with her rag. "Cars come and go."
"This one went into a ditch."
She didn't answer. On her way back to the counter she slipped something into his jacket pocket. He didn't notice until he stepped outside and felt the weight. Another slip: ASK THE STATION WAGON.
Back at the garage, Aron pulled the tarp off an old wagon that looked like it had been painted beige by a colorblind man. The roof rack sagged, the mirrors cloudy.
"If this is about that mailbox," the wagon said, "it jumped in front of me."
"I need to know about my family's car," Aron said.
The wagon's lights flickered. "The Oldsmobile? Self-important type. Talked like it was reading out of a brochure. Safety this, innovation that. A real know-it-all."
"Was it… angry?"
"Angry's a human word. But it was sharp. Tires stiff. Brakes touchy. Radio volume low. Cars usually like music. When they stop, it's because they want to hear something else."
Aron hesitated. "Did it choose the crash?"
The wagon idled for a long moment. "I'm not a judge. But some of us get tired. Some of us make choices. If you want proof, the road still remembers. Rubber leaves handwriting."
Aron stepped back, receipt tight in his hand.
The rest of the day he worked like nothing was different—headlight bulb, wiper blade, spark plug. But every job felt like stalling. Between tasks he made lists. Tools: socket set, tape, coolant, spare bulbs. Basics: cash, blanket, water. Questions: who signed the crash report, why west, what exactly was his family's car trying to say before it ended everything.
The Impala watched him line up supplies in a milk crate. "So you're going somewhere."
"Looks like."
"You know I hate gravel roads."
"You'll survive," Aron said.
He walked back to the diner one last time. The waitress met him at the door before he sat down.
"West?" she asked.
"That's what the receipts keep saying."
"Keep fuel above half," she said. "People panic at a quarter tank. Cars get snippy."
He tried to smile. "Snippy cars sound familiar."
"Snippy cars are honest." She turned back inside without another word.
On the curb outside, a crumpled receipt fluttered. Gum, soda, and beneath the items: DON'T FORGET WATER.
"Working on it," Aron said to the paper.
That night he spread a paper map across the workbench. Coffee stains marked the edges, someone else's ballpoint circles dotted highways. He traced west with his finger, receipts lined up like a trail: FUEL UP. DON'T LOOK BACK. ROAD LEADS WEST. ASK THE STATION WAGON. DON'T FORGET WATER.
The town outside went about its business. A screen door slammed. The barber-mayor flipped his CLOSED sign for dinner. Nothing here asked where he was going.
Aron checked the Impala's tires, filled the washer fluid, packed the aspirin in the glove box next to a pen and notebook. On the first page he wrote: Questions the road might answer.
"Tomorrow?" the Impala asked.
"Early," Aron said.
"You going to sleep?"
"Going to try."
He turned off the garage lights. The building sighed. Upstairs, the bed was narrow but enough. Aron lay flat, receipts stacked on the nightstand. He pictured the first gas station out of town, the road opening like a blank page. West wasn't a promise, just a direction. Enough to start.