The old Chevy had been sitting in Jake’s garage for years—rusted, forgotten, but still alive. His dad had called it "The Blue Streak" back when it could still outrun trouble.
Jake wasn’t supposed to drive. Not since the accident. Not since his leg had been rebuilt with more metal than bone. But tonight, the night before the wrecking yard came to haul the Chevy away, he slid into the cracked leather seat and turned the key.
The engine coughed, sputtered—then roared.
The garage door creaked open, and the night air rushed in, smelling of gasoline and rain. Jake gripped the wheel. One last ride.
The streets were empty. The Chevy growled beneath him, faster than it had any right to be. The wind howled through the open windows, and for the first time in years, Jake felt whole.
Then, in the rearview mirror—headlights.
A sleek black car, too quiet, too fast. No plates.
Jake’s blood turned cold. He knew that car. It had been there the night of his accident. The night his dad didn’t walk away.
The Chevy’s engine screamed as he slammed the gas.
Tonight, he’d outrun the past—or die trying.
