An hour later, a small town crouched at the foot of the coast's rise—red brick and a diner with chrome edges like a promise. Mateo found a mechanic whose name, ironically, was Ortega, the sort of man with hands that guessed what was wrong before the hood opened. "She's tired," Ortega said, looking at the MT1887 with the kind of intimacy reserved for old friends and broken things. "Radiator hose. But you drove her far."
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She nodded, thin as a question. Her phone had cracked into a thousand little lines; blood freckled her forehead. Mateo fetched the first aid kit, a stubbornly neat square of gauze and tape, and pressed it to the cut. While she thanked him in breathless fragments, he noticed, in the passenger seat, a cooler like the ones he hauled—stickered, dented, and labeled with a hand he almost recognized. It read: MT1887 Logistics. An hour later, a small town crouched at