It's late summer, 1998, on a two-lane highway in western Missouri. The Grease Pit is a garage that used to be a gas station—concrete floor, a vending machine that hums, a payphone nobody uses. Luna's cousin Danny worked the night shift alone. He said he didn't mind the quiet. Then the calls started coming in after midnight. Not from a phone line. From the cars themselves—the ones waiting on the lift, the ones stacked out back, the ones that had been sitting dead for years. The ringing came from their dashboards. And when Danny answered one, the voice on the other end knew his name. This is the story of what he heard, what he found in the glove box of a '65 Mustang, and what he told me before he stopped talking about it entirely.

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