Tyrel’s truck sat in the center of the cracked Walmart parking lot like a grumpy old bull-battered, sunburnt, and ready to charge. It was a rust-speckled, dent-riddled ‘78 Ford F-150, painted a color that might’ve once been red but had long since faded into something closer to BBQ trauma. A frayed air freshener shaped like a Georgia peach hung from the rearview mirror like a war medal. The bumper was zip-tied. The tailgate didn’t close. The glove compartment held three unpaid parking tickets, two cassette mixtapes, and one emergency Slim Jim.

  It was, as Tyrel described it, “a real man’s truck.”

  And it was about to suffer.

  The group had taken over a mostly-abandoned corner of the lot, the kind where old carts go to die and teenagers secretly learn to drive. A few faded parking lines struggled under patches of weeds. A dented soda machine blinked sadly in the distance.

  Marisol, Sarah, Cami, and Tyrel stood by the curb like a firing squad of spectators. Sarah sipped a 20 oz Mountain Dew. Cami had a camcorder hoisted to her eye like she was filming a war documentary. Tyrel had both hands on his head like he was trying to keep his brain from escaping. Marisol chewed a red Twizzler with the menace of someone who knew they were watching a slow-motion disaster.

  Inside the truck, Ravi was sweating buckets.

  “Why are we doing this again?” Tyrel asked, his voice the low whimper of a man betrayed by every decision he’d ever made.

  “Because,” Marisol said, patting his shoulder like a weary coach, “they’re gonna use this at the DMV tomorrow, and it’s better they crash now where we can film it.”

  “Crash?” Tyrel squawked, voice cracking. “You said nothing about crashing!”

  Cami leaned around Sarah. “Don’t worry, babe. They’ll only scrape. Gently. Like a kitten trying to murder you.”

  Sarah added helpfully, “Think of it as exposure therapy. For you. And your suspension.”

  “I should’ve left y’all at home,” Tyrel muttered.

  Inside the truck, Ravi sat behind the wheel like it was a NASA control panel. His gsses were fogged. His knees were too high. He couldn’t find the handbrake.

  “Where is the-uh-retention lever? The… clutchy-stick?”

  “That’s the brake,” Bharath said from the passenger seat, calm as a monk. “The clutch is on the floor. Third pedal.”

  “There are three? Why are there three?! What is this, a foot puzzle?!”

  “Welcome to America,” Bharath murmured. “Land of freedom and confusing transmission systems.”

  Outside, Cami zoomed the camcorder. “Documenting this for future wsuits.”

  “You’re a menace,” Tyrel hissed. “If my truck dies, you die.”

  “Smile for the trauma reel,” Cami cooed.

  Ravi finally found the clutch and depressed it. The truck groaned awake like an old man startled from a nap. It coughed. Lurched forward two inches. Then stalled with a mechanical cough.

  “Ah!” Ravi yelped, hands flying off the wheel.

  “You killed it,” Bharath said.

  “Vamanos hermano. Don’t leave the clutch so early! You need to feel the vibe before you release the clutch properly,” advised Jorge

  “I startled it,” Ravi insisted, wide-eyed. “It was not ready for my energy.”

  Tyrel looked ready to cry. “He murdered my girl in cold neutral.”

  “Take a breath,” Marisol said, sliding sungsses onto her face. “We haven’t even started the chaos yet.”

  Ravi took a breath. Started it again. This time, it held.

  “Okay. Clutch, gear, gas…”

  “Gently,” Bharath warned.

  “Si. Con cuidado” said Jorge holding on to the cab

  Ravi released the clutch like it insulted his mother or Spock.

  The truck lunged forward with the unholy torque of a demon goat. It made a wide, screeching arc, tires protesting in a symphony of fear.

  “Ohmygod..ohmygod..ohmygod,” Sarah chanted.

  “RAVI TURN!” Marisol yelled.

  “I AM TURNING!” Ravi screamed back, as the truck performed a deeply unintentional drift around an empty cart corral.

  From the curb, Cami whooped. “This is cinema!”

  Jorge was screaming, “Asi! Vamonos muchachos!”

  Ravi smmed the brakes. The truck stopped with a dramatic shudder, exactly three feet from a rusty pole.

  “I DID IT!” he screamed, throwing both hands in the air like he’d just won the Monaco Grand Prix.

  Tyrel colpsed onto the curb. “He took that corner at forty. I counted.”

  Sarah gently rubbed his shoulder. “Breathe, baby. Let the rage leave your bones.”

  Tyrel whimpered. “My bones are screaming.”

  “Next!” Marisol barked like a drill sergeant. “Let’s go, Desi Speed Racer!”

  Bharath exited the passenger side, sauntered to the driver’s seat, and slid in with the smooth confidence of a man who’d once driven a go-kart in reverse.

  He adjusted the mirrors. Re-adjusted the seat. Turned the key with reverence.

  “I am ready,” he said.

  Sarah raised a brow. “You’ve driven a stick before, right?”

  “Of course,” Bharath said. “I once navigated a family of four through Perambur rush hour on a Hero Honda with no brakes.”

  “I don’t know what that means and that is not the same thing,” Tyrel muttered.

  “It’s better!” cimed Bharath.

  “Drive like it’s America,” Cami warned. “Not Mad Max: Tamil Nadu.”

  The truck started. Smoothly.

  And then, Bharath made a beautiful left turn… directly onto the wrong side of the lot.

  “WRONG SIDE!” Sarah yelled, pointing like she was spotting a meteor.

  “I am strategizing,” Bharath called back. “Wide arc! Tactical position! I am visualizing space!”

  “You’re visualizing DEATH,” Tyrel yelled. “Get to the RIGHT!”

  “I am on the right. That’s why I know I’m right,” Bharath insisted calmly. “It’s just not your right, Right?”

  Ravi nodded sagely.

  He continued his loop, a perfect mirror of what American driving should look like. His hands were at ten and two. His gear shifts were buttery. He even signaled.

  To nobody.

  “You’re doing great,” Ravi called encouragingly.

  “That was the most boring ride I’ve ever been on,” ridiculed Jorge. “Who are we driving? Your grandmother? Miss Daisy?”

  “He’s doing great on the wrong continent,” Marisol muttered.

  He returned to the original position and parked with a gentle tap of the brake.

  Perfect.

  Except it was still the left side.

  “Your truck has achieved enlightenment,” Bharath said, stepping out.

  “You have achieved illegal maneuvering,” Tyrel groaned.

  “You drove with symmetry,” Cami admitted, lowering her camera. “Which is impressive. And terrifying.”

  “I could not see any hydrant threats,” Bharath added.

  “Because you almost kissed it,” Sarah replied.

  Ravi gave him a fist bump. “You’re my hero.”

  Then came Jorge.

  Jorge jumped out of the cab and toward the driver’s seat like he was about to ride a mechanical bull at a frat party.

  “Witness me!,” he said, finger guns bzing.

  “No,” Tyrel replied instantly. “No, we are not.”

  “Too te, mi gente!” Jorge yelled, jumping into the truck with both feet like an action hero who didn’t know the budget was fake.

  He didn’t adjust anything. He didn’t even buckle.

  He just cranked the engine and cranked the radio louder.

  Tyrel recognized the reggaeton beat and screamed. “OH HELL NO-TURN THAT DOWN-”

  “VáMONOS MUCHACHOS!” Jorge bellowed, flooring the gas.

  The truck screeched out like a demon unleashed. The tires squealed. A seagull flew overhead in sheer panic. Jorge spun the wheel and performed a literal donut.

  “Oh no,” Tyrel muttered. “Why did I say yes to this? Why?”

  “Because we maniputed you,” Cami said sweetly. “Now hush.”

  Jorge floored the gas and peeled out so hard the tires squealed.

  “Oh my god!” Sarah shrieked. “HE’S DRIFTING!”

  “I’M GOING TO DIE!” yelled both Bharath and Ravi, holding each other petrified in the truck.

  “STOP HIM!” Tyrel roared.

  “I CAN’T! I’M FILMING!” Cami shouted, gleefully zooming in.

  “JORGE! YOU MANIAC! THAT’S MY MAN WITH YOU IN THE TRUCK!” Marisol screamed.

  Jorge did a victory p around a cart corral and waved at them through the window like he was in a parade. “CALMATE! I GOT THIS BITCHES!”

  “You are going to explode this truck!” Tyrel screamed, sprinting toward him.

  Jorge hit the brake. The truck fishtailed, spun ninety degrees, and came to a stop facing the exact wrong direction-but somehow didn’t hit anything.

  Silence.

  Cami’s jaw dropped. “He stuck the nding.”

  “WORSHIP ME! I AM A GOD!” Jorge yelled, leaping out.

  “YOU’RE A MENACE!” Marisol shrieked, spping him upside the head.

  “I was testing torque under field conditions,” Jorge grinned.

  Bharath and Ravi got out of the cab and kissed the ground.

  “You were auditioning for death,” Sarah added.

  Tyrel knelt in the grass, staring at the truck. “She’s hurt. I can feel it. She’s whispering to me.”

  Tyrel staggered forward like a man who’d aged a decade in twelve minutes. “You… demon. Bck Jesus, save me! You put my girl through G-forces dawg. I should have you arrested!”

  Sarah had to physically restrain him.

  “Let it go, babe. Let it go.”

  “I need a priest. I need a mechanic-priest.”

  “She’s whispering, ‘Get insurance,’” Cami added.

  Ravi timidly raised a hand. “So… how’d I do?”

  “You drove like a panicked goat with GPS,” Tyrel muttered.

  Bharath gave a solemn nod. “But you didn’t kill anyone.”

  Jorge did a spin. “I drove like the devil. Without the horns.”

  “You’re all going to jail,” Tyrel said ftly. “The DMV is going to look at y’all and just evict you from the state.”

  Bharath dusted off his hands. “Well. I think we are prepared.”

  “You’re prepared to die,” Tyrel snapped. “Not drive.”

  Ravi raised a timid hand. “I did manage to... move.”

  “You orbit-bounced off a shopping cart rail,” Cami said.

  Marisol crossed her arms. “We’re going to the DMV with this?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said, too brightly. “Because what could possibly go wrong?”

  Tyrel dropped to his knees in the gravel.

  “Bck Jesus help me! Y’all pray for my truck. And my therapy bill.”

  Sarah cpped. “This was perfect. Now we go tomorrow and let the real circus begin!”

  Cami gave the camcorder a final zoom on Tyrel’s face.

  “Scene one,” she whispered. “Pre-trauma. Before the DMV.”