Leo blinked. “So… you two know each other?”
The driver of the Aventador stepped out. He was in his late sixties, dressed in worn jeans and a faded flannel shirt. Silver hair, crinkled eyes. He looked less like a supercar owner and more like a retired rancher. 2 lamborghini
The woman walked over and nudged the old man’s shoulder. “And I bought the Huracán the day I finished chemo. Third time, finally stuck.” She smiled, not sadly, but with a fierce, quiet joy. Leo blinked
And three cars—two roaring Italian stallions and one coughing sedan—pulled out onto the empty highway, side by side, chasing the sun toward the fire. Silver hair, crinkled eyes
They stood in silence for a moment. The only sound was the ticking of hot engines and the distant buzz of cicadas.
He pulled back onto the road and, against all reason, floored the sedan. It groaned and shuddered, but he kept the two Lamborghinis in sight, tiny specks that grew smaller by the second. Then, ahead, he saw them slow down. They pulled over at a derelict gas station—a relic with cracked pumps and a single working soda machine.
Leo caught the cold can. He looked at the two Lamborghinis—one dark as a bruise, one bright as a promise. Then he looked at his own car, which suddenly didn’t feel like a failure anymore. It felt like a beginning.