The air conditioner in the 2014 Honda Civic had died three weeks ago, and the heat inside the cabin was a physical weight, heavy and wet. It smelled of turpentine, stale Dunkin’ coffee, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Ivory Han gripped the steering wheel at ten and two. Her knuckles were the color of old parchment. She checked the rearview mirror for the fifth time in a minute. In the back seat, Lucas Bird sat perfectly still. He was six years old. He didn't fidget. He didn't kick the back of her seat. He didn't ask if they were there yet. He just stared out the window at the passing cornfields, his small hands folded over a sketchbook that was too big for his lap. He was wearing a striped polo shirt that had been washed one too many times, the collar curling up at the edges. "You okay back there, buddy?" Ivory asked. Her voice sounded too bright. Brittle. Like cheap glass about to shatter. Lucas didn't turn his head. "Yes, Miss Han." "It's a hot one today. Sorry about the AC." "It's okay." He was too polite. It made Ivory’s skin crawl. Most first graders were chaotic engines of noise and sticky fingers. Lucas was a statue carved from something soft but dense. He absorbed the world without reflecting it back. Ivory pressed her foot down on the accelerator. The Civic whined in protest, the engine rattling as the speedometer