Leo felt a pang he couldn’t name. Not jealousy. Something older. Recognition.
The desert highway unspooled like a black ribbon under the Nevada sun. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, warping the distant mountains into liquid mirages. In the middle of this emptiness, two dots appeared in the rearview mirror—low, wide, and moving with the unnatural speed of fighter jets on afterburner. 2 lamborghini
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. Leo felt a pang he couldn’t name
Then the woman pointed at Leo’s beat-up sedan. “What’s your story?” Recognition
They stood in silence for a moment. The only sound was the ticking of hot engines and the distant buzz of cicadas.
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.