John Milton ran his fingers across the roof of the car, down the windshield and across the hood. It was a 1970 Pontiac Le Mans, specified as a two-door convertible with an interior from the Luxury Le Mans but with the front seats swapped out for Strato buckets. She was painted in royal blue with a big V8 engine that had been a joy as it had eaten up the miles.

The man who was interested in buying the car sucked his teeth. “She’s a beauty.”

“She certainly is,” Milton agreed.

He had placed an ad on eBay when he arrived in Panama, and the very first offer had been at the asking price. The prospective buyer—a man called Durán—was the owner of a used car dealership specialising in American cars, and Milton had driven the Le Mans across town this morning to close the deal. The business was not quite as grand as the website would have had him believe, but there were some nice cars in the lot of a similar vintage to the Pontiac. That had given Milton some encouragement. He knew that it was foolish, but he had grown fond of the car during the long drive, and he was pleased that it might be going to a purchaser who would appreciate it.

Durán scratched his chin. “And you’ve driven down from where?”

“Mexico.”

“Like—a road trip?”

“That’s right.”

“How many miles did you put on the clock?”

“Quite a few. And I didn’t have a single problem.”

That was the truth. Milton had driven over four thousand miles during the last three weeks, and, in that time, the car had behaved perfectly. It had started every time he turned the key, and had not complained as he navigated the mountain switchbacks through Guatemala and Honduras, then down through Nicaragua, Costa Rica and, finally, into Panama.

“I didn’t know you’d come so far,” Durán said. He winced. “I’m not sure I can offer quite what I said in the email.”

“I gave you the mileage when we spoke,” Milton replied patiently. “I actually overestimated it by ten miles. It’s a perfect runner. And the price is the price—take it or leave it. If you don’t want it, someone else will.”

Durán exhaled, feigned reluctance, and then—after seeing that Milton was not going to budge—he caved in. “Fine. Twenty thousand. Come through into the office and we can sort out the paperwork.”