Reynolds put the cigarette back into his mouth. “I understand,” he said, cigarette bobbing. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Ran said, and headed for the garage. There he hopped onto Sprite’s red and black double R, thumbed the starter, confirming driver ident, and punched the throttle, disappearing down the empty streets. They were still wet with the nightly acid rains, his tires hissing and sizzling as he drove.

Though dry, it was still dark two hours later. Ran traveled north on a four lane back road with sporadic traffic, starting to make his way out of the sprawling metropolis of Lost Angels.