You’re driving through the winding, Western cliffs when one of the tires on your car blows out. You steer it to the edge of the lane, but there isn’t enough room to get off the road. You hope that speeding drivers will be able to see you when they’re coming around the bend. You crank up the car on a jack and prepare to replace the tire with a spare. Just then, a cyclist approaches you. His smile is bright and unmoving. You explain the problem, and he says he’ll be just up the road if you need help. He races off, and you continue to fiddle with the lug bolts. Out of nowhere, the cyclist reappears. He brings you an air filter—just some litter from the roadside. You look at him, confused, and reiterate that your problem is a flat tire and this won’t help. Still smiling, he again pedals off into the distance. Minutes later, he returns with a discarded gas can. Useless. You chuckle at his strange behavior once he leaves, and you make a note to tell your friend about this when you get to your destination. You find three of the bolts needed to secure the new tire. The fourth must be under the car. You get on your knees, back facing the road, and feel around for it. You strain to reach it. Suddenly, a warm hand places the heavy metal in your palm. Your eyes meet the cyclist’s sunglasses and his blinding grin. Shocked, you jump up and stumble backward into the road. Into the traffic. Into the path of a car careening down the mountain.