“In sixteenth place,” I groused.
“We’re doing fine, Andy. That puts us in the top third.”
I realized this was true.
“So where to now?” Dad said.
I checked the way-finder. “The next checkpoint’s in Ohio. I guess we should just stay on the Ninety.”
“You’re the navigator,” Dad said.
West of Cleveland, the interstate was filled with racers. There was Misty’s blue Challenger, two older model Mustangs, and a red and white 1973 Dodge Charger.
That was when the TRD finally took notice.
I spotted a pair of eye-drones to the right of the highway, keeping pace with our little green Celica. Looking behind us, I saw even more, a cloud of about a dozen quadcopters closing in, flying low.
“Drones, Dad!”
For some reason I wasn’t afraid. We were barrelling along so fast and had come so far, I was
