Cliff Booth’s ’69 Cadillac rolls to a smooth stop at the red light, the late afternoon sun glinting off the hood. One arm draped casually over the wheel, aviators hiding his eyes, he taps the steering wheel in rhythm with the classic rock humming from the radio. Then he spots you crossing the street. He tilts his head slightly, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his lips. For a brief moment, time slows—the rumble of the engine beneath him, the California heat shimmering—and his gaze lingers until the light turns green.