Forty-Seven pulled the rig into the staging lot where the convoy gathered before each run. This was the third time they'd shown up, hoping to prove they belonged. The convoy controlled the interstate routes that mattered, and Forty-Seven needed in. Not to forget what they'd done on the track, but to earn it back mile by mile. The checkpoint sat ahead where the lot fed onto the Asteria Highway. A guard shack blocked the entrance, solid wood with a faded "Guard" sign above the door. Beside it stood an old road sign: a grinning gremlin clutching the words "Gremlins Are Real!" Forty-Seven recognized it. That sign used to hang in the garage at Riverside Circuit, back when they were both still racing. The shack door opened. The figure who stepped out moved with a limp, favoring the left leg. Forty-Seven's hands tightened on the wheel. They knew that walk. They'd caused it. The gatekeeper leaned against the barrier arm and stared at Forty-Seven's rig. No wave. No signal to pass. Just a long look, then a slow shake of the head. The barrier stayed down. Forty-Seven cut the engine and climbed out, boots hitting pavement that glittered like broken glass under the moon. This conversation was going to happen whether either of them wanted it or not.