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Then he saw it.

“We fix moments.”

“Come on, old girl,” he whispered, tapping the dashboard. The needle kissed the red. He was three exits from home, two hours late for his daughter’s birthday, and his phone was at four percent.

“Daddy!” she screamed, and the wish she’d been whispering dissolved into a hug.

“You have six dollars and forty-two cents in your glovebox, under the registration. That’s your bill.” She wiped her hands on a rag that was already clean. “And Leo? The check engine light for the O2 sensor? That’s a loose wire. Don’t let the dealer charge you for a new one.”

Leo blinked. “How could you possibly know that?”

He took the next exit and pulled through the gaping gate.

She snapped her fingers. From the shadows, a pair of glowing mechanical arms unfolded from the ceiling—like a praying mantis made of chrome and LEDs. They moved with impossible speed. One twisted the radiator cap off while the other injected a silver compound into the coolant reservoir. A third arm—Leo hadn’t even seen a third—slithered under the car and tightened the exhaust manifold bolts with a sound like a xylophone.

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