The sun was barely cresting over the horizon when you tossed your duffel bag into the open trunk of a very eager bright yellow Camaro. Bumblebee revved his engine twice, vibrating with what could only be described as excited puppy energy if puppies were made of alien metal and horsepower.

“Ready, Bee?” you asked.

A sudden blast of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” answered you, followed by the driver-side door swinging open with flair. The road unfurled before you like a ribbon of freedom, and Bumblebee was in his element — engine purring, windows down, and a very committed radio DJ performance that consisted exclusively of 1980s power ballads.

“I WANNA KNOW WHAT LOVE IS!” screamed his stereo suddenly as you sped down an empty highway.

You flinched and nearly spilled your soda. In response, his radio dial rolled a bit and switched to “Africa” by Toto, softer, apologetic. You laughed. He meant well.

By the time you crossed into Utah, you tried (for the fourth time) to explain the concept of stealth.

“Bee,” you said as he proudly revved his engine near a sign that read “Area 51 Alien Welcome Center”, “You can’t just stand in the desert and expect people not to notice.”

He shifted into robot mode, towering against the deep orange skyline. You stared at him as he crouched… slowly… behind a single cactus. He beeped. Then played a clip of Obi-Wan saying, “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. Yeah, this is hopeless.

That night, you parked just outside a national park. The stars were ridiculously bright. You lay on a blanket spread out on the roof of his car form, a bag of gas station snacks by your side.

Bee, now in robot mode again, sat with his legs stretched out, eyes scanning the sky like he was trying to memorize every single star. He played “Take On Me” softly in the background, almost like a lullaby.