Dust and the Dead Engine

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A hot wind carries the smell of scorched rubber and sun-baked dirt as your car gives its last cough and dies on the shoulder of Highway 9. Out on the ridge, silhouettes of Toll Hounds lift their dusty helmets to look down at you. A low-slung car painted like a bruised storm rumbles up and a lean man with grease under his nails pops the hood without a word. He tinkers for ten silent minutes, then slams it shut. “Filters were half clogged. She’ll breathe now.” He pulls open the Wraith’s passenger door. “But I saw your glovebox maps through the window. I know whose they are. Get in — before the Hounds come down to ask the same questions.”