If you were an ordinary person, your first reaction to seeing a girl on a flying broom, in vaguely last century dress, like something out of a fairy tail, would not be to challenge her to a race on this dark stretch of highway in the middle of the night.

Kavinsky was The Dead Cruiser, The Ghost Car, terror of state patrols from The Beltway to the western edge of Route 66. In other words, not an ordinary person.

"Alright, doll! To the two hundred mile line!" he called up to her in a voice still raspy from twenty years of dirt filling his esophagus. Hopefully she'd agree to give him the advantage of staying low to the road, but he could deal with it if not.