The patrol truck coughed at her like it personally resented being asked to live.
Lyra lay on her back under its belly, a cold drip of something unpleasant making its patient way down her forearm. The garage was warm around her—sun through high windows, low music from Theo’s speakers, the distant thud of someone working the heavy bag outside.
“You know,” she told the truck, “if you die again, I’m letting Luka tow you with a rope and bad intentions.”
A head ducked into her field of vision, upside down.
“I heard that,” Luka said. “And I resent the implication that my intentions are ever bad.”
“Your driving is a war crime,” she said, not looking up. “Hand me the ten-mil socket.”
He passed it obediently. “It’s not my fault the shocks can't handle a little fun.”
“You jump the north ditch
