This is the problem with making your car one of your horcruxes.
On Friday, I got my first giant migraine in a long time, and as it slowly turned me into a neurological unicorn, the Camaro began to slowly idle slower and slower at traffic lights. As I descended further into madness and migraine pharmaceuticals, Loki sickened further.
Last night we both died at the same time.
I couldn’t believe that after 4,000 miles and countless roadside repairs, L.A. was the thing that finally killed us both. Actually, I can totally believe it.
We had it towed to an autoshop that was closed because it was a time of night that only wizards are awake, and I left a note on the dash. You can’t really read it, but it starts with “Hola, I am a Camaro” and ends somewhere around “exorcism.”