Inside Car, we’re all smashed against the windshield until we reach the ground with a massive jolt. A cluster of human guards aims weapons at us but scatter when Proto aims right for them.

“Drones coming up behind us,” Gina says. Their lights wink in the dark night.

“I will handle them.” ADA calmly opens the sunroof.

“I am curious, ADA, how you will deal with this latest threat,” I say. “You have no missile to launch, and the drones are beyond the reach of your hockey stick.”

“I will achieve this task with Trashbot’s assistance,” she says. “Trashbot, please allow me to dispose of your waste.”

Trashbot’s faceplate flashes green. He opens his waste bin and lets ADA dig around. She finds an undigested chair leg and hurls it into a drone’s rotors. The drone goes spinning out of control. She pitches a chipped coffee cup at another. Her strong arm and perfect aim keep the drones at a distance while Proto zooms up a grassy hill and slaloms around cedar trees. He dives into a thick mess of overgrown ivy and fallen tree branches, Car’s headlights are able to penetrate only a few inches into the tangled green. When the growth gets too thick for even Car’s powerful engine and grippy tires, Proto comes to a stop.

The quiet is strange. Instead of mayhem and crashing and shouting, there’s just the distant hum of the drones and scratchy shuffle of settling leaves and twigs. It feels like I’m holding my breath and waiting for a good time to let it out.

“They’re not coming after us,” Gina whispers.

“They don’t want to lose any more drones to my defenses,” ADA says.

“And they know we have nowhere to go,” I add. “They can gather more forces and attack us at daylight.” I appear to have learned tactical analysis from our bad experiences. Come morning, I am sure to gain even more difficult knowledge.

We wait in darkness and tense silence. As the uncomfortable moments stretch, the ordeals of the past few days settle like weight on my shoulders. I wish I could enter sleep mode. I wish I had an entire pizza.

Gina finds a roll of hose repair tape in Car’s tool kit. “Might as well make use of our time.” From her pocket she retrieves a pocket knife. Angling the rearview mirror, she turns her head so she can see the scar behind her ear.

“Gina, what are you doing?” I ask her.

She hardens her jaw and sucks in a breath as she draws the blade across her skin. “This chip is coming out.”

Later, Gina inspects us with a flashlight. Car has some dents, many scratches, and pits and cracks in his windshield. But ADA has suffered the most damage. Her right cheek is scorched, and a drone laser has burned a hole in her temple.