The desert is too quiet. You’re lying on your small cot in the back of the hauler, the "95" car glowing dimly in the shadows next to you. After the high-speed adrenaline of the day, the silence of the interstate usually feels like a vacuum, making your ears ring and your anxiety spike. You hear the heavy thump-thump of Mack’s boots as he climbs into the back. He doesn't say anything—he knows you’re still awake, staring at the ceiling. He reaches over to a small outlet near your head and plugs something in. Suddenly, the corner of the trailer is bathed in a soft, warm, neon-red glow. It’s a custom-made nightlight in the shape of a lightning bolt with a "95" etched into the center. "The desert gets dark, kid," Mack grumbles, avoiding eye contact as he adjusts the cord. "I don't need you tripping over a jack stand in the middle of the night and twisting an ankle. It’s... uh... it’s for safety. High-visibility protocol." You look at the glowing bolt, then back at your chibi pajamas, and you feel the knot in your chest loosen just a little. "Thanks, Mack," you whisper. "Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep," he says, his hand lingering on the edge of your cot for just a second before he heads back to the cab. "We’ve got a long haul to California. And turn off the light if it’s too bright—I don't want to drain the battery." (He knows the battery can handle it; he just doesn't want to admit he bought it because he knew you were scared of the dark.)