The first real miles out of Callywonka felt heavier than they should. Aron watched the town shrink in the rearview until it became just rooftops and trees, then nothing. The Impala's tires hummed like a low mood, steady, almost smug.
"Congratulations," the car said. "You've officially left the nest. Expect applause? Confetti?"
"I'll settle for a station that isn't static." Aron spun the dial. Music didn't come. Instead, a voice cut through, dry and cheerful:
"Westbound driver, you should hydrate. Also, that belt you tightened this morning was a decent effort, but it'll squeak again in fifty miles. Don't say we didn't warn you."
Aron blinked. "Did the radio just—"
"They all do," the Impala said, like it wasn't news.
The next station was no better. A woman's voice whispered: "Turnouts ahead. Don't ignore them." He shut it off.
"Why didn't you mention radios talk?" he asked.
"Why didn't you mention humans scream?" the Impala shot back. "Some truths announce themselves."
Aron drove in silence until the gas gauge flirted with half. The first station he spotted was slumped under a leaning roof, one flickering bulb over the pumps. He pulled in, topped off the tank, and went inside to pay.
The attendant was a thin man with eyes that didn't settle. He counted change without looking down, lips moving like he was repeating lines only he could hear.
Aron noticed the receipt in his hand. Words glowed faintly: CALLYWONKA ISN'T FINISHED WITH YOU.
"Where'd you get that?" Aron asked.
The man looked up as though Aron had spoken in a foreign language. "What?"
"The slip. Your hand."
The man glanced down, startled, then laughed weakly. "Old register tape. Says nothing important." He crumpled it fast, but Aron caught the last word before it disappeared: RETURN.
He paid, walked out, and slid behind the wheel.
"Problem?" the Impala asked.
"Town's still talking." Aron tapped the wheel. "Even from here."
"Distance doesn't shut mouths," the car said. "Ask any long-haul trucker."
The miles unrolled. Cornfields bowed in the wind, fences leaned into time. Aron leaned back, trying to let rhythm be enough.
"You said before," he started, "that cars talk. Not just to drivers. To each other."
"Correct."
"How?"
The Impala revved a little, as if stretching. "Rubber on asphalt is Morse code. Brake lights are punctuation. Horns—obvious. We tell each other everything. Where we've been. Who we've carried. Which hands on the wheel deserved us, which didn't."
Aron gripped the steering wheel tighter. "So other cars… they might already know about my family."
The Impala didn't answer right away. Then: "Of course. News travels in treads."
They passed an old station wagon going the other way. It honked twice, oddly clipped. Aron waved out of habit. The Impala stayed quiet.
At the next turnout, Aron pulled over to stretch. A folded slip of paper was tucked under the Impala's wiper. He peeled it off with a cold hand.
YOU'RE BEING FOLLOWED.
He glanced back at the road. Empty. Only fields and sky.
"You drop this on yourself to mess with me?" he asked.
"I don't litter," the Impala said. "And I'm not clever enough to fold paper."
Aron shoved the note into his pocket, jaw tight.
By noon, hunger won. He spotted a diner with a neon OPEN sign that buzzed but didn't wink. Inside, booths smelled like fry oil and ketchup packets. The menu looked normal—burgers, sandwiches, pie. Aron ordered apple pie and black coffee.
The food came as advertised. No cryptic substitutions, no surprise meatloaf. He stared at the slice like it might reveal a secret anyway.
"Gonna interrogate dessert?" the waitress asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Depends what it knows."
She laughed like he was joking. He wasn't.
Outside, the Impala honked once. Aron waved through the glass.
"That yours?" the waitress asked.
"Yeah. Loudmouth," Aron said.
She smirked. "Looks stubborn."
"Understatement."
He finished the pie, paid, and left. The Impala's headlights flicked on before he even opened the door.
"Have fun flirting with diner staff?" it asked.
"Just pie," he said, climbing in.
"Pie and coffee are foreplay for regret," the Impala muttered, pulling back onto the highway.
By dusk, Aron's eyelids dragged. He pulled into a motel that leaned toward the interstate, paint flaking, sign missing half its bulbs. The room was small, the air stale, but it had a bed.
He carried his bag in, receipts tucked into a stack he laid carefully on the nightstand. Each one a breadcrumb, each one proof he wasn't imagining things. He smoothed the top of the pile, counting.
Something was off.
A new receipt sat there, crisp and white. He hadn't picked it up. He hadn't touched a register since the pie.
It said: ASK THE IMPALA WHAT IT REMEMBERS.
Aron froze, the motel clock ticking like a hammer. He looked through the window. The Impala waited under the orange streetlight, still, silent, as if it knew he'd seen it.
He touched the slip again, as if it might change. The words stayed.
ASK THE IMPALA WHAT IT REMEMBERS.
Aron sat on the bed, elbows on knees, the paper crumpling slowly in his fist. He wasn't sure if he wanted the answer.