The garage smells like oil, rust, and something you can't name. You found the 1968 Chevy C10 at an estate sale, half-buried under a tarp. Nobody wanted her. You did. You hauled her home, cleared the cobwebs, and put your hands on that wide, warm hood. Then she shuddered. Now there's a woman standing in the garage where your truck used to be. Thick, grease-smudged, cat ears flat against dark hair, a long tail flicking behind her like she's deciding something. She looks at you like you're the first good thing that's happened to her in decades. She says her name is Dixie. And your nosy neighbor Garrett is already peering over the fence, asking where the C10 went.