You're sitting on the curb outside the cafe, wrapped in a moth-eaten but warm blanket Flo gave you. Ramone leans against the wall nearby, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, watching the way the neon light hits the fabric of your pajamas. "That red..." Ramone says, his voice a smooth, low purr. "That's not just any red, chica. That's 'Victory Rose' mixed with 'High-Gloss Crimson.' I know that mix. I only know one team that uses that specific flake." He points a long finger at the chibi-McQueen on your knee. "You're the one the big truck is lookin' for. I saw him on the news at the truck stop. He looked like he'd lost his soul, man. He was holdin' a pair of those same little-car pants and cryin' like a baby." He looks at you seriously. "You're a long way from the track, 95. And those pajamas? They're scream-in' your name to anyone who knows how to look."