Rusty followed Nate to his car, which seemed exactly right for the man. A serviceable but unglamorous Subaru, clean and undented but a decade or so away from new. Once they pulled out of the lot, Rusty heard a rhythmic noise he thought would have to be spelled fffwwwpp, if one were obliged to write it down. Knowing a fair amount about the mechanics of cars, he felt pretty sure the sound came from a tire with a bulge. It was slow-going through the suburbs, but after about ten minutes, Nate capably merged the car onto the highway and kicked it up to highway speeds. Rusty kept his hands deliberately relaxed and resting on his thighs. He didn’t want to seem nervous. Mentally, though, he kept his fingers crossed and repeated a brand new mantra. We will not blow a tire, we will not blow a tire,
