With a flash of light, the car warps back into existence. It gently rolls forwards, before coming to a sudden halt with a metallic thud, as it bumps into a dumpster. I try to throw the beaten and battered thing into reverse, so I can pull it into the garage.
It doesn’t budge when I touch the pedals. Confused, I get out and walk around to open the bonnet. There is no bonnet. More importantly, there’s no engine in the engine bay.
My latest trip into Pacific Drive’s Olympic Exclusion Zone has gone even worse than I thought.
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