Page 32 of Slots & Sticks
I lean into the open window. “I’m gonna change the flat, and we’ll be back on the road.”
Dot peels one eye open. “We could call someone.”
“Nah, I’ve got it. Done this a bunch of times.”
That’s only half true, but I deliver it with enough swagger to sell it. “Give me fifteen minutes and you’ll never even know we stopped.”
She eyes me, skeptical. “You sure you don’t want help?”
I grin. “Nope. Sit tight, enjoy the AC, tell Mira to play some motivational music or something.”
“Mira,” she says, deadpan, “play the sound of impending doom.”
Mira obliges with low, dramatic cellos. I shake my head, chuckling. “Perfect.”
I roll the window down before killing the engine—just enough air that she won’t roast, but not enough to drain the battery. Then I get to work.
The first bolt fights me. Sweat slides down my temples as I lean my weight into the wrench. Dot’s reflection watches mefrom the glass. I can feel her gaze even when I’m not looking. She probably thinks I’m showing off—and she’s right. I want her to see me as capable, the guy who can fix things when they go sideways. Not the awkward one she used to tutor through physics.
I finally get the lug nut loose with a grunt that’s half triumph, half pain. “See?” I call. “Still got it.”
The desert air smells faintly like hot rubber and sagebrush. A hawk cries somewhere above us. The world feels weird, like we’ve slipped out of time for a second—just me, Dot, and the ghost of a tire.
When I lift the deflated one off the hub, Dot’s door opens. She steps outside, balancing on the painted line to avoid the glass. The sun hits her hair and turns it gold.
“Hey,” I say, straightening. “What happened to sitting tight?”
“I can’t just watch you melt out here.” She squints, shading her eyes. “Besides, Mira says your hydration levels are probably dropping.”
“She’s spying on me now?”
“She’s reading the car sensors.” Dot offers a bottle of water from the console. “Drink. Don’t argue.”
I take it. Her tone’s bossy, but her hand trembles slightly when she passes it to me. Anxiety, not heat. She hides it well, but I’ve known her too long. She’s probably picturing every worst-case scenario—car explodes, we die, Skinbad never gets rescued.
“Hey.” I nudge her wrist. “We’re good. Ten more minutes.”
She nods but doesn’t move away. She watches me like she’s daring the universe to prove me wrong.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I hide behind the bumper of the car to pull up a YouTube tutorial. “I don’t get it,” I mumble to myself. “The freaking car jack hasfouroptions. How comenoneof them fit?”
I crouch lower, wipe sweat off my forehead with the back of my wrist, and glare at the stupid hunk of metal. Somewhere in my brain lives the vague memory of watching my dad change a tire on his pickup—me holding the flashlight, him telling me to “keep it steady.” I’d aimed the beam everywhere except where he needed it, mostly because I was seven and fascinated by how the light caught in the dust. He’d laughed, fixed the tire in five minutes flat, and tossed me a root beer like it was nothing.
Now I’d trade a year’s salary to have that same calm, know-what-you’re-doing energy. Instead, I’ve got a sunburn and a jack that looks like it belongs in a Transformer movie. I mutter, “How hard can this be?” and immediately regret tempting fate.
I scrub through the video in search of the parts that are immediately relevant to me. I have the volume on low, but it must not be low enough, because I hear Mira say, “I don’t think Camden knows how to change a tire.”
Yikes. Roasted by the robot assistant. My ego takes a hit.
I glance toward the car window where the little puck sits glowing faintly blue, like a smug eye of judgment. The tone in Mira’s voice isn’t mean, exactly—just clinical enough to make me feel like a lab rat. I’ve been chirped by teammates, coaches, even a few fans on social media, but nothing cuts quite like being dissed by Siri’s evil twin.
It’s the way she says it, too: calm, certain, no hesitation. Viktor would be proud. Hell, she sounds exactly like him mid-drill—“Head up, Beck, your stick’s in the wrong place.” I half-expect her to follow up with, “Do twenty suicides while you think about what you’ve done.”
I shake my head and mutter, “At least Viktor buys me dinner first.”
From inside the car, Dot laughs, and the sound carries over the empty road. The hit to my pride stings a little less after that.
