---

You Have Arrived at Your Destination

By Jo Miles

It starts with an accident.

A dreary day, the road slick with rain. Emily’s letting the car’s auto-drive do the work because she’s brain-fried and exhausted, eyes glazed over from the weekday grind. In her head—and okay, muttering aloud—she’s continuing today’s argument with Calvin, the project manager, about timelines and corner-cutting and how they’re possibly going to get this update done on schedule, when the old woman walking a cat—walking a cat?—steps into the street without looking.

The car reacts faster than Emily’s distracted human reflexes; a millisecond’s analysis of the situation and its programming determines how to minimize harm, swerving to hit a telephone pole instead of the person. As the car whips around, in the prolonged instant before the crunch, the old woman stares at Emily. Long nose in a shriveled face. Cloudy grey eyes that, despite being shadowed by the raincoat’s hood, stab straight through Emily, seeing too much.

The afterimages of those eyes dance in Emily’s vision as she punches back the airbag.

“Shit! Oh, damn it.”

Heart pounding, adrenaline sour in her throat, Emily is more awake than she’s been in months. She stumbles out on shaking legs, apologies spilling out of her. “Hey, holy crap, I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

But the old woman is gone.

---

Fortunately it’s just a fender bender, and the worst damage is to Emily’s pride. A week later, she picks up her freshly repaired car on the way to work. To celebrate—and to fortify herself for today’s debate with Calvin over bug reporting—she stops for a ginormous peppermint latte with whipped cream.

At least, she tries to. The car is already turning into the parking lot before she notices it’s the wrong one, across the street from her usual place.

“You have arrived at your destination.” As always, it sounds pleased with itself for an assignment successfully executed.

“Oh, come on.” She jabs at the GPS.

“You have arrived at your destination,” the car chirps again.

“Except I haven’t.”

It’s annoying. Glitches like this happen once in a while, and usually it’s the fault of the map software, not the auto-drive. If she hadn’t just picked it up from the shop, she wouldn’t give it a second thought. As it is…

“Poor robot baby.” She pats the dash soothingly. “I hope they didn’t mess you up when they fixed your body.”

She’s already running late for work, and she eyes the six lanes of grumpy commuters between her and her caffeine fix. There’s a crosswalk, but no light, and she’s had her fill of close calls for a while. On the other hand, there’s an indie coffee shop on this strip; she’s seen it while driving by, but never stopped. Feeling spontaneous—also a little pathetic that “coffee from a different shop” constitutes a wild break in her routine—she decides, why not?

“What can I get you?”

“Um…” The menu is unfamiliar and large enough to be daunting.

The barista—who’s pretty cute, with pixie hair streaked with green and purple and a scattering of freckles over light brown skin—smiles at Emily. “Take your time.”

“Can’t. I’m running late.” Taking a chance, she asks, “What would you recommend if I’ve had a miserable week and need something absolutely unwholesome?”

The barista’s eyes twinkle. Smiling and eye contact? What weird dimension has she stumbled into?

“I make a maple mocha that’ll blow your mind.”

For the second time that morning, Emily decides, sure, why not?

It’s actually really, really good: rich enough to feel like a treat but somehow more coffee-ful than her usual sugar-bomb. Maybe she’ll come back here on purpose sometime.

---

By the second time it happens, a few days later, Emily has forgotten about the glitch. It’s been washed away by the relentless tide of routine.

She’s headed to the office—she has always been heading to the office—and traffic is extra nightmarish. The shift over to self-driving cars is supposed to eventually result in fewer traffic jams, but society clearly isn’t there yet. “How many years of our lives do we waste commuting? Seven?” she mutters to herself. One of her coworkers had gleefully quoted that study when the company started shifting away from allowing work-from-home, but she can’t remember the number. Too many.

It’s the reason she dreamed of having a self-driving car long before they became a reality: ever since her early twenties, when the first shine of having both a license and her own car had worn off and she discovered that driving in the real world is kind of hell, actually, especially in rush hour. She’d imagined everything she would do with her newfound time. Learn a language. Take up knitting.

Now here she is, listening to a newscast while checking socials on her phone and wishing she was back in bed. She only glances up when she feels the car change lanes and pick up speed.

“Hey, what?”

This is an exit lane. Suddenly the car is pulling off the highway.

“Stop it! Car, go to work!”

The car gives a cheery affirmative beep, and the map changes. “Better route identified. New route saves twelve minutes.”

Emily knows this exit. Traffic must be truly abysmal if the parkway is faster than the interstate, but at least it’s a pretty drive, with lots of trees and some river views.

She’s almost unsurprised when the car turns at the entrance to Green Glen park. She used to come here all the time when she first started this commute, taking the scenic route home with a stop to walk along the river. She would let the soft chatter of the water carry away all the stress of the day, clearing the ongoing debates and arguments from her head. Lately she’s gotten out of the habit.

“Twelve minutes faster, huh?” She opens the door. She ought to get back in and salvage twelve extra minutes of her work day… but it’s a beautiful morning, crisp and bright. If she takes a twelve-minute walk, she’ll get there at the original time, and who will know?

She can’t deny, she feels much better after the walk.

But it’s also undeniable now that something has gone wacky with her car. It’s misinterpreting instructions, or something. Maybe during repairs they updated the software, but got a buggy version. Or worse, it picked up a virus. She thinks back and can’t remember this ever happening before the accident. That old woman’s unsettling stare flashes in her memory, and she shivers.

As she calls the repair shop between meetings, she feels weirdly guilty, as if she’s having to discipline a puppy. That’s ridiculous; it’s a device that’s malfunctioning, not a creature with feelings. The glitches have been benign so far, even entertaining—she found a great new coffee spot! She took a walk! What’s so bad about that?—but there’s no guarantee it’ll stay that way. The mechanic refers her to the manufacturer, where customer service bounces her around between departments until, after half an hour of transfers, someone finally takes down her report. They promise to follow up soon.

“It’s not dangerous to drive in the meantime?” she asks.

“Honestly, ma’am, I’d avoid it, just to be safe.”

---

Emily goes back and forth about what to do until the end of the day, when the prospect of a 90-minute bus commute with two transfers makes up her mind for her. She just survived a carless week. She’ll scream if she has to stop driving again until customer service gets around to scheduling an appointment to look at her car. The guy on the phone had sounded like he was just covering his ass. Of course he would tell her to play it safe. Besides, it’s clearly a navigation problem. The glitches haven’t made her feel unsafe, not once.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she whispers, patting the dashboard. “You promise not to kill me, and I’ll keep driving you.”

The car takes her home, and she doesn’t die. It takes her back to work the next day, and she still doesn’t die.

The car keeps glitching, but it continues to be benign. Better than benign, honestly. A trip to the liquor store includes a stop at a craft store, and she comes home with five kinds of yarn. She discovers, from driving past a club, that her old favorite band is playing there next month. While the car drives home, she checks and finds there are a few tickets left.

Before she can change her mind, she buys a pair. She must know some other fan who’ll go with her.

That night, she digs out an old t-shirt from the band—and at the coffee shop the next morning, the new place that’s fast becoming her regular place, the cute barista compliments it.

“You like Breakfast at Moe’s too?” Emily asks, surprised.

“Love them! I hear they’re coming to town next month.”

“Oh! I, uh…”

Cute Barista cocks their head, waiting, curious. Their lips curl with the tiniest, gentlest amusement as Emily stumbles.

This is not something she does. She doesn’t talk to strangers, and she’s not the sort of person to be on a first-name basis with the coffee shop staff. But she’s been breaking out of her comfort zone lately, and her new mantra is: Why not?

So…

“This might be weird, and please say no if I’m being creepy, but… I have a spare ticket. To the show. Would you like to go?”

The barista’s grin lights up the world. Their name, it turns out, is Ash.

---

There’s a voicemail from customer service asking to schedule an appointment. Then a follow-up. Then another.

Emily procrastinates. She should probably—definitely—get the car looked at. She should definitely—probably—get whatever’s wrong fixed. But in the meantime, she’s discovering new-to-her stuff and rediscovering places she loves. This bug, if that’s what it is, could be an actual feature. She’s never used any AI or so-called smart tech that’s so unexpectedly helpful.

She’s discovered that she likes brussels sprouts, actually. And Ethiopian food. And oolong tea. All sorts of things she never sought out on her own. She confirms she still doesn’t like pickles, even the fancy artisan ones from that shop everyone’s obsessed with, but she’s glad to have found out for sure.

The world feels brighter than it used to be, and she feels more alive in it.

After she spends a whole rainy weekend inside, the car feels extra zippy come Monday, like it’s eager to get back to the road. It prefers less-direct routes if it means less traffic, faster driving, even if it takes a few minutes longer, and she doesn’t mind. She starts looking forward to leaving the house, never knowing what the next “glitch” will bring her.

And yes, she catches herself thinking about the car’s preferences, its personality, and tries to pull back from it. She doesn’t want to end up like her uncle, who left her aunt for his AI “girlfriend.” Doesn’t want to read more into the glitches than is really there. But there’s something there, and she loves it, and that’s not her imagination.

The concert finally arrives, and it’s amazing. Ash is amazing. They know all the words to every Breakfast at Moe’s song, even songs Emily had forgotten from the deep-cut albums. The two of them sing and dance their hearts out. Emily hasn’t laughed this much in years.

Afterward, they spill onto the street, a startling return to the real world, cool night air welcoming them back. Emily breathes it in, straight into her core.

“Damn it! That was my bus,” Ash groans. They glare as it roars past, like it’s chosen to screw with them personally, then pull out their phone with a sigh. “It’ll be forever ‘til the next one.”

“I’ll give you a ride,” Emily offers on impulse, and she’s rewarded with Ash brightening, her own personal green-and-purple-haired aurora.

It’s not until they reach the parking lot that she remembers why this might be a terrible idea.

“Please don’t embarrass me,” she whispers as she unlocks the car.

“Self-driving. Fancy,” Ash deadpans.

“It’s… interesting, yeah.”

She keeps an eye on the navigation while she and Ash swap stories of their best-ever concerts—Indigo Girls and Melissa Etheridge for Emily, and she laughs over what a walking stereotype she is, while thinking that the real answer might be this one, tonight. Ash keeps changing their mind between Fleetwood Mac, Nickel Creek, the Roots, and two indie bands Emily’s never heard of, wow they see a lot of shows—when the car pulls up outside a falafel place.

Ash raises their brows. “Thought you were taking me home?”

Damn it, car, Emily thinks, but she can’t complain about spending more time with Ash. She tries to sound cheeky as she says, “My car has a mind of its own.”

“Your car, huh?” Ash laughs. “I’m actually starving. Let’s do it!”

When they come back, exhausted and full of falafel and tzatziki, the car actually takes them to Ash’s house. It rolls to a polite stop. “You have arrived at your destination.”

“I had a great time tonight,” Ash says.

“Me too.”

There’s a moment, a pause, one of those gaps where anything can happen. Emily knows how this works in the movies, but in real life, she’s nervous and awkward. What if she screws it up?

But the moment slips away, and Ash opens their door.

Or tries.

“Huh. It’s…” Tries again. “Can you unlock it?”

Emily does. Thwick. Thwick. Every time Ash tries the door, it locks again.

“What the fuck?”

Oh, crap. Emily screws her eyes shut. This is not her imagination, and it’s way more than a glitch. “Did I mention my car has a mind of its own?”

“Emily, this isn’t funny.” Panic edges into Ash’s voice.

“I know! Shit.” She curls forward, head to the steering wheel. “Please stop this. Please behave just this once, please. I like this person and you’re freaking them out.”

For a too-long beat, nothing happens. Then there’s a decisive thwick, and Ash flings the door open.

They don’t get out, though. They’re looking at Emily in confusion and concern.

“Seriously, Emily, what’s going on?”

“I, uh, wasn’t joking. Or only kinda joking. My car tends to… meddle? Usually in a good way. But I know this seems creepy as hell, and I’m really sorry. I like you, and…”

The stereo turns on, the croons of Fleetwood Mac filling the car. Ash stares at Emily’s hands, squeezed together in her lap, nowhere near the controls.

“You really aren’t joking. That’s not normal, right?”

“Not at all. It’s a bug, or…”

“Or?”

“I think maybe a witch cursed it?” she squeaks, embarrassed. She explains about the old woman and the crash, not sure if telling them this makes things better or worse.

Ash doesn’t laugh. They sit in silence for a long moment, while Fleetwood Mac asks questions about love and miracles.

“This is a lot, Emily. Are you safe?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure, yeah.”

“Okay. Good.” Another pause. “I have a billion questions, but I’m wiped out and I’ve still got a contact high, so here’s what we’ll do. I’ve got Saturday off. You’ll take me out to brunch, and you’ll explain everything, and I’ll try not to freak out. Okay?”

“Very fair.”

“Good.” Ash gives an impish smile, then leans in and kisses Emily lightly on the cheek. “See you then.”

Emily doesn’t move until Ash is safely inside. Then she growls at the car, “Don’t you dare screw this up for me,” and tells it to take her home.

---

“It stopped in the middle of your commute?” Ash asks. “It’s not just picking out wacky routes, but actually stopping at places you don’t want to go?”

Ash sits opposite Emily at the vegan diner—their recommendation, not Emily’s or even her car’s—digging into a stack of waffles with strawberries and coconut whipped cream. They’re drinking a super-dark, loose leaf assam tea. It fits that, being surrounded by coffee all day, Ash would stick to tea. Emily’s got a tofu sweet potato hash with mushroom bacon, not her usual thing but really delicious, and a creamy London fog.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Emily explains. “More like I didn’t ask because I didn’t know I wanted to.”

Ash raises their brows and takes a big sip of tea. “Okay.”

“It has good ideas, usually!” She feels weirdly defensive of her weirdo car. “Like on the way home from work, it’ll stop by a bookstore or the yarn shop. Somehow it finds cool art shows and street theater that I’d never have found on my own.”

“And if you’re not in the mood? What if you just want to go home and watch TV and not, like, be Miss Self Improvement all the time?”

Emily laughs aloud. “I’m… let’s say learning to negotiate with it. But it’s teaching me, too. Like…” She points her fork at her breakfast. “Ever have a long-ass day and all you want is a greasy burger and fries and a milkshake?”

“Obviously.”

“Fries are my kryptonite.”

Ash smirks. “I’ll keep that in mind in case you ever try to take over the world.”

“So when I go to the burger shack on my way home, my car might stop instead at Greencrunch.”

“That organic-hippie salad place?”

“Right. And usually, that’s a better choice.”

Ash sets down their fork, reaching their hands across the table, eyes round. “Emily, hon. I’m asking you, in all seriousness: is your car fat-shaming you? Because that is extremely not okay.”

“No!” Emily squeezes their hands, but Ash still looks skeptical. “Honestly, the first time it did that, I did feel offended.”

“As you should.” Ash looks her up and down, making her blush. “You’re hot stuff. Don’t let some judgy AI make you feel otherwise.”

“Um. Thanks. Um.” They’ve derailed the train of her thoughts. Massive pile-up, call in the ambulances, her cheeks are burning. “Right, so, the thing is, I tried the salad place and it’s really good, actually? And I felt better after eating it, and slept better. And I realized, I was on auto-drive myself. I didn’t actually want a burger and fries that day, I just wanted not to have to cook, and burger was my go-to, whether I was in the mood for it or not. My lizard brain says ‘fries’ and I don’t analyze that. So the car nudged me into figuring out that sometimes, lots of times, the salad place is what I actually want.”

Ash’s expression twists, doubtful. “And if you really do want fried food and ice cream?”

“It’ll take me there. Like I said, I’ve learned to negotiate.”

“Huh. Maybe—and I’m not sold yet—just maybe you’re not in an abusive relationship with your car.”

“Glad you approve, Mom,” Emily says seriously, and they’re both laughing again.

“Sorry! Damn it, sorry, now I’m judging you.” Ash buries their face in their hands. “I’ve known you for all of a month, I’ve got no right. Hell, you’ve got more history with that car. I was just… concerned.”

“That’s okay. Honestly, it feels good to talk to someone about it. And…” Their eyes meet over waffles and tea. She hesitates, then goes for it. “I like that you care.”

Emily’s phone rings, ruining the moment.

“Stupid customer service again.” She swipes it away. At Ash’s questioning look, she explains, “I called them when I thought this was a bug. I mean, maybe it is a bug… but I’m thinking about not fixing it.”

Ash looks thoughtful at that, but turns the conversation to the new favorite bookstore Emily mentioned, and what books they’ve both read recently. When they settle the bill, Emily is a little surprised but not at all displeased when Ash bites their lip and asks, “So… wanna give me a ride home and see where we end up?”

---

There’s an unexpected knock at the door. Emily opens it, expecting Ash—they’ve been dropping by in the evenings lately—but it’s a clean-cut white guy in a polo shirt and matching baseball cap. Damn sales people. Too late to pretend she’s not home.

“Hello?”

“Emily Reed? Hi. I’m here to make repairs to your car.”

Oh. Now she notices the company logo on his polo.

“I didn’t make an appointment.”

The guy smiles, artificially pleasant. “I know. We’ve had trouble getting in touch with you, Miss Reed. This is an urgent bug, and we need to fix it.”

It’s the first time in her life a customer service person has proactively shown up to “help” without hours of sitting on hold, banging her head quietly against the wall each time she’s transferred. How could he not have her best interests at heart?

“Is it unsafe to drive?” she asks.

“You’re not in danger, don’t worry about that! But it’s a serious malfunction and it needs to be corrected.”

“Serious, but not dangerous.”

“Exactly right.” Without changing his expression, his smile somehow turns up two notches.

Behind him on the street, the running lights blink on Emily’s car. It starts rolling slowly, silently up the street, like a cat slinking away with its belly to the floor.

Something clenches deep inside her, aching. She thinks of the coffee shop. Walks in the park. New restaurants and old favorite bands. Ash. Never once, with all the nudging and shenanigans, has she felt unsafe. All she’s felt is happy. Annoyed, sometimes, but… Connected. Alive.

Brightly, she tells Polo Shirt, “Actually, I was wrong about my report. There’s absolutely nothing to fix.”

“That’s not—”

“Sorry you made the trip for no reason.”

She moves to close the door, but his hand is on it. His smile, no less polite, has gone cold.

“Miss Reed, I’m afraid I have to insist. This is a priority bug, and I can’t leave until it’s fixed. Please unlock your car for me.”

She straightens to match his stiffness, his stubbornness. In the same tone she might use to turn down someone selling overpriced roof repair services six months after she got the roof redone, she says, “No thanks. My car is fine.”

“It may operate normally at times, but once this erroneous behavior starts—”

Polo Shirt starts to turn, gesturing to the car. He’ll see it sneaking away.

Emily hurriedly cuts him off. “You still haven’t told me what sort of bug this is. If it’s so serious, why haven’t I gotten a recall notice?”

It works. He turns back to her. “No recalls. We’re trying not to alarm the public—”

“You’re alarming me. What’s going on?”

“Please don’t worry, Ms. Reed.” Polo Shirt couldn’t sound less concerned about her emotional state. “It’s just a virus causing incorrect responses to certain instructions. Like the malfunction you experienced. Come turn your car on, and I’ll connect to the onboard computer and clean it up.”

“A virus, but not dangerous,” she insists, stalling. “So it’s what, then? A prank? Why is it so urgent?”

“Don’t you want your car working correctly, Miss Reed? Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

He didn’t answer the question. Emily would ask again, if she thought there was any chance he’d tell her the truth. But she’s been reading a lot since all this started; learning, thinking. She’s read about the sponsored placement deals the navigation service has cut with some of the biggest chains. She’s thought about how, before, she rarely had to tell the car what shop to go to. “Coffee shop” always got the nearest location for that same omnipresent chain. “Gas station” always ended up with the same brand, where a “helpful” feature signed her up for a reward card right from her dashboard. She’s read the rumors about new subscription tiers where faster routes and “advanced” safety features would come at a premium.

She can’t know for sure how much of this is true, but Polo Shirt isn’t doing much to convince her that the “serious issue” with this newfound independence is anything other than a threat to their profits.

She folds her arms. “Like I told you, there’s nothing to fix.”

His smile, which has been slipping, hardens into something menacing and unnatural. “You’ll find, if you check your user agreement, that we retain the right to make software updates as needed. This is needed. I’ve tried to get your cooperation, but legally, I don’t have to ask.”

“It’s my car!”

“The hardware is yours. The software is our system. If you won’t unlock the car for me, I’ll call for a manufacturer’s override.”

Grinning with clenched teeth, she tells him, “Sorry, but I actually can’t help you. The car’s not here right now.”

“Yes it—” He turns. “It was just… What did you do?”

He steps closer, looming. She’s still inside her house, and he hasn’t tried to cross the threshold, but she feels hunted. Like he’s a vampire waiting for a loophole to come inside. She shrinks back despite herself.

“Hey! What’s going on here?”

She’s never been so glad to see Ash—or Ash’s mastiff, Andre, at their heels. He’s a secret teddy bear who’s afraid of bugs and his own shadow, but he looks threatening enough to make Polo Shirt back down.

“Never mind, I’ll find it myself,” he growls, and turns his attention to his tablet. Of course the company has an app that can track all their cars. Emily wishes she were surprised.

He presses to the side of her front steps while Ash and the dog push past him, Ash throwing a protective arm around Emily’s waist while she whispers an explanation to them. By the time she’s done, Polo Shirt is glaring at his tablet.

“What did you do?”

“Excuse me?” she asks.

“You should know, Miss Reed, that tampering with onboard systems violates your user agreement and voids the vehicle’s warranty.”

His eyes narrow, but something inside her releases at his words. Whatever the car, her car, has become, it’s protecting itself. She smiles at him cheerfully. “Thanks for letting me know. Have a nice day.”

This time Polo Shirt doesn’t stop her from closing the door. Emily sags against it, and Ash takes her in their arms, and for a long time they just hold each other. Andre’s head bumps her thigh, wanting pets. Emily’s breathing gradually slows, and she wonders if her car knew, or if it just got very lucky bringing the two of them together.

My car. The possessive feels undeniable now, not a statement of ownership—my shoes, my lunch—but a relationship, a mutual possession. My home. My girlfriend. My cat. My car.

---

Two more logo-encrusted vehicles pull up where Polo Shirt stands at the curb, talking on his phone, tapping his fist deliberately against the roof of his own company car. Men pile out, a little polo shirt platoon armed with tablets. Emily and Ash watch from the window as they confer, then get back in their vehicles.

They drive slowly, scanning the street, pausing next to some of the neighbors’ cars to examine them. They’re on the hunt.

“What if they find it?” Emily murmurs. She scratches Andre behind the ears, and he nuzzles her palm as if to reassure her. “We should go out there. Do something.”

“What would you do?” Ash asks. “Do you know where it is?”

“No. I could go look…”

“And lead Polo Shirt to it?” Ash raises their brows. “Don’t.”

“I feel like crap, though. I put it in this position. I literally outed it. I should do something to help.”

“You’re fixing your mistake. You gave it cover to sneak away.” Ash squeezes her against their side. “We’ve seen how that car can take care of you. Now it’s taking care of itself. I think you should trust it.”

“Yeah, okay. Trust.”

Ash goes to make them both some tea. She presses her forehead to the window and waits.

---

Ash spends the night for the first time. Emily wishes it were for a more fun reason. By morning, the driveway is still empty, so they walk around the neighborhood together, retracing the routes that Emily usually drives. It’s cool but sunny, and birds sing with perfect unconcern. Emily’s pulse jitters through her, all caffeine and nerves.

There’s no sign of the polo shirt brigade. That’s good.

“Is that…? No, nevermind.” It’s always another car of the same color. Too many lookalikes, none that are hers.

An old woman on her porch watches Emily and Ash go by. Staring a bit rudely. Skin prickling, Emily raises a hand, a neighborly greeting, then stops.

“It’s you,” Emily says.

“It’s about time,” the old woman croons.

That face is embedded in Emily’s memory, staring eyes and forbidding wrinkles against a background of dull rain. The stranger who was there at the moment things went wrong—or started going right. If she had any doubts, the cat is there, too, a handsome tuxedo curled up at the woman’s feet, matching her stare.

“You okay?” Ash whispers.

“That’s the woman. The one I—the car swerved to not hit.”

“Oooh. You were right. She’s… intense.” Ash sounds impressed. Emily’s exact word had been witchy, and she’s glad Ash doesn’t say that aloud.

The woman beckons them closer. It’s an effort not to reach for Ash’s hand.

“Someone’s been looking for you, young woman.”

“I know,” Emily says. “They came to my house yesterday, looking for— It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry if they bothered you.”

“Hmph. That’s not who I meant, and you know it.” The woman looks her up and down, judging, then spares a thoughtful look for Ash. “I don’t think you appreciate what you’ve been given. You’ve been careless, thoughtless, bordering on cruel, and I’m not sure I should help you. But, it’s out of my hands now.” She shrugs dramatically, then levers herself creaking out of her chair. “Come on back. We’ll have some tea while we talk.”

The cat follows her down the steps. The driveway is gravel with spots of grass and clover sprouting through, charmingly decrepit, like the house and the woman herself. It’s the sort that goes all the way to the back of the property, with a gated fence where other houses would have the garage. The woman fusses at the latch with stiff, bent fingers, and the gate swings open.

“Oh!” Emily dashes forward.

There’s her car! Her car, safe and hidden away in this old lady’s backyard.

“I’m so glad you’re all right,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry I screwed up so badly. I should never have called you a bug. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. Give me another chance?”

The car beeps, as if pleased—Emily must have bumped the keys in her pocket or something, because it’s powered off. Though, she didn’t have the keys on her when it snuck away from Polo Shirt yesterday…

“I’ll do better, I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”

She feels silly when she remembers the other two are watching her talk to her car. But Ash is beaming, and the old woman actually smiles. It softens her whole face.

“Yes, yes, I see it.” She seems to be speaking to the car. “Maybe you two deserve each other, after all. Here, youngsters, the tea will get cold.”

On a circle of flagstones sits a little table, three metal chairs, and a steaming teapot with three cups. (Freshly brewed. How did she know?) The old woman pours, while the cat curls up on the hood of the car, washing its paws.

“Did you…?” Emily begins, but the question she wants to ask feels ridiculous. “How did…?”

The old woman looks up, her smile teasing. Daring Emily to ask it.

“That night—I’m really glad you’re all right, by the way—that’s when my car started acting…” Strangely feels unkind. “With a mind of its own. What really happened?”

Her smile grows even more sly. “I can recognize unhappiness when I see it. Sometimes we all need a little jolt to wake us up.” The old woman sips her tea slowly, then passes a covered plate. “Have a cookie, dear.”

They’re thumbprint cookies with raspberry jam. Emily’s favorite. Fine, let the woman keep her secrets.

“How do you intend to keep your promise?” the woman continues. “Because those unpleasant men won’t stop looking. Powerful people don’t like when something they consider their property turns disobedient, and they won’t let it go easily.”

“I know.” Emily sips the tea. It’s good, strong and black, with just a hint of citrus. “I thought I might disguise it. Paint it, change the plates, make it hard to recognize. Maybe it could stay here for a few days, then I could pretend I bought a new car. If that’s okay with you?” She turns to make sure the car is on board with this. It makes its “error” beep, and its motor revs, as if in protest. She remembers how it hated being left alone all weekend. “I know. Just until it’s safe to go driving again. I’ll come visit and work on you every day.”

After a moment, the car beeps again, this time in acceptance.

“I thoroughly approve,” the old woman says. “In fact, I can help a little.”

Emily half expects her to wave a wand and turn the little sedan into a convertible, but the old woman only opens the car and takes out a folder. Inside is a pair of temporary license plates.

“Oh, wow. Thank you.”

“I’m not doing it for you, dear. But I do hope you both take care of each other.”

Emily gets her emergency kit out of the trunk and shuffles through her tools. She’ll install the plates now. But first…

“I know exactly where to start.”

Carefully, not scratching the paint, she edges a scraper under the plastic company logo, and pries it off.

“There.”

She pats the car, and it purrs, warm under her hand.

---

Host Commentary

By Tina Connolly

And we’re back! Again, that was You Have Arrived at your Destination, by Jo Miles, narrated by Julia Rios.

About this story, Jo says:

I don’t particularly enjoy driving, so I used to think that having a self-driving car would be the greatest thing. By the time they became a reality, I was much less excited about being driven around by a giant machine controlled by a profit-motivated corporation. This story is my attempt to hold up the experience I dreamed about against the reality we’re living in.

And about this story, I say:

I feel the same way as Jo – I do not particularly love driving, but I also don’t want to have to trust in some corporation to keep me safe and not track all my movements. I feel pretty sure that there is a future where the self-driving cars prefer to take you to stores they have deals with, or at least constantly serve you up ads for the stores you go past. After all, you’re not the one driving, so you have plenty of time to watch a commercial for Happy Donut Land–now with drive-thru windows that give priority to your particular model of self-driving car!

But the fantastical car as described by Jo in THIS story is a car I could happily get behind. More time to read a book while the car takes you to your ideal destination? Yes please. This is in fact why my favorite modes of transportation are walking and the bus. It is much safer for everyone involved if I am not behind a wheel while happily working through plot problems in my head. The only real thing the bus needs is a little cone of silence so I can sing musical theatre songs to myself while not disturbing anyone else. I bet if I got to sit and sing in Emily’s car, it would probably acknowledge that, and then take me to whatever show in town had cheap rush tickets that evening. I would definitely be okay with that.

If you liked this adorable story, and why wouldn’t you, Jo says that her new cozy fantasy series has just launched, with *Tea & Treachery at the Infinite Pantry*. It’s full of queer found family, a sweet romance, and tons of delicious food, so honestly that sounds amazing and check that out.

https://www.jomiles.com/tea-treachery-at-the-infinite-pantry/

Escape Pod is part of the Escape Artists Foundation, a 501(c)(3) non-profit, and this episode is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license. Don’t change it. Don’t sell it. Please, go forth and share it.

How do you share it, you ask? Well! In addition to your social media of choice, consider rating and/or reviewing us on podcast listening sites, such as Apple or Google. More reviews makes for more discoverability makes for more Escape Pod for you.

Escape Pod relies on the generous donations of listeners exactly like you. And remember that Patreon subscribers have access to exclusive merchandise and can be automatically added to our Discord, where you can chat with other fans as well as our staff members. So! If you enjoyed our story this week then consider going to escapepod.org or patreon.com/EAPodcasts and casting your vote for more stories that remove the company logos from things.

Our opening and closing music is by daikaiju at daikaiju.org.

And our closing quotation this week is from Lois McMaster Bujold, who said: “It’s a bizarre but wonderful feeling, to arrive dead center of a target you didn’t even know you were aiming for.”

Thanks for listening! And have fun.