The car gave up somewhere between nothing and nowhere. One last wheeze, a cough, and the engine quit. The heat had already started to shimmer off the asphalt.

Jack got out first, slamming the door hard enough to make the side mirror rattle. He popped the hood and stared into the haze of metal and dust. The desert buzzed — insects, heat, and her voice.

She stayed in the passenger seat, one flip-flop dangling off her toe, a glossy magazine spread open across her knees. “You know Mercury’s in retrograde,” she said, as if that explained everything.

Jack glanced over his shoulder. “That a part number or a horoscope?”

“Horoscope,” she said, still reading. “It messes with travel, communication, engines… basically anything with moving parts. Including people.”

He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Sounds like bad wiring to me.”

She laughed, the sound cutting through the dry air. “You ever notice how everyone blames Mercury for their own mistakes? I read that in Astro Today.” She flipped a page. “Also, did you know that the Mojave used to be underwater? Like a hundred million years ago. Sharks. Coral reefs. Now it’s all sand and roadkill. Life’s funny like that.”

Jack straightened, looking at her over the hood. “You got a fact for every situation?”

“Pretty much,” she said. “I collect them. Magazines, documentaries, cereal boxes. My brain’s like an encyclopedia nobody asked for.”

He closed the hood with a sharp thud. “Then tell me what’s wrong with the car, Encyclopedia.”

“Overheating,” she said without hesitation. “You smell the antifreeze? It’s sweet — means the radiator’s cracked or the hose popped off. You probably should’ve stopped when the gauge hit red.”

He blinked, surprised despite himself. “You know cars, sister?”

“I know patterns,” she said, tapping the magazine with her finger. “Engines, people, planets — they all break the same way if you don’t pay attention.”

Jack watched her a beat longer than he meant to. The sun hit her face just right; she looked harmless, almost careless, but her eyes were sharp. He went back to the hood, checking the hose. She was right.

“Got any water?” he asked.

She held up a half-empty bottle. “For the radiator or me?”

“Radiator.”

She slid out of the car, bare feet on the hot pavement, and handed it to him. “You’re welcome, Mercury.”

He shook his head, pouring the water in slow. “You talk a lot.”

“Somebody’s got to fill the silence.”

He glanced up, half a smile ghosting across his face. “Maybe I was enjoyin’ the silence, sister.”

She smirked, lighting a cigarette. “Then you picked the wrong passenger.”

For a long moment, they stood side by side, wind whipping her hair, the smell of smoke and engine heat between them. The car might start again, or it might not — but neither seemed in a hurry to find out.