This was the section he should have heeded. It was tucked between “Changing a Tire in a Monsoon” and “Using the Roof Rails as a Clothesline.”
Arjun’s mouth went dry. He remembered the manual.
Then it was gone. The temperature returned. The radio, which had been playing static, suddenly blared a cheerful jingle for a local furniture store. Arjun pulled over, hands trembling. He opened the glovebox. The manual was open to page 11.3. At the bottom, in handwriting that was not his, a single new line had been added:
“When driving on an unlit road between 2:00 AM and 4:00 AM, do not look in the rearview mirror. The Avventura was tested extensively in the Turin wind tunnel and the Romanian backcountry. In the latter, something got in. It is not harmful. It merely… observes. It prefers the back seat. If you must look, acknowledge it by saying, ‘The road is long.’ It will reply, ‘The fiat is longer.’ Then it will vanish. Do not ask about the warranty.”
Arjun tested this. He bought an espresso, placed it in the cupholder, and attempted to reverse out of his driveway. The car simply… sighed. A soft, electronic exhalation came from the speakers. He sat there, mortified, as his neighbor watched. Desperate, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a stray Bourbon biscuit, and waved it toward the glovebox. The compartment latch clicked softly. The car reversed. The biscuit was gone.
“The Fiat is longer.”
The manual, a thick, slightly greasy paperback titled “Fiat Avventura: Beyond the Tarmac” , lived in the glovebox like a dormant spider. The first few pages were normal: how to adjust the seat, how to operate the Bluetooth that never worked. But page 17 was where reality began to fray.
It was a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a car that could also ford a small river. This, at least, was the firm belief of Arjun Mehta, who had just taken delivery of a violently orange Fiat Avventura.
“The road is long,” he whispered, his voice a croak.
Arjun Mehta never sold the Avventura. He drove it for twelve more years, through monsoons and mountain roads, never once using the turn signal unless absolutely necessary. He kept a pack of digestives in the glovebox at all times. And on dark, lonely highways, if he ever felt a chill from the back seat, he simply turned up the heater, patted the dashboard, and said nothing at all.
