The sun was hanging low over the Oregon forest as the bus rolled smoothly along a twisting mountain highway. Inside, the lounge was unusually quiet—everyone half-comatose from too much espresso and too little sleep. The smell of coffee still clung to the air, but the vibe had mellowed into that late-afternoon calm where no one wanted to move unless it was absolutely necessary.

Then the bus slowed a bit, not braking, just gliding more gently along the road.

Rico peeked up from his phone. “We breaking down?”

“Nah,” Diesel rumbled from the cockpit. “Just easing up before the hairpin. Saw a logging truck flip on this stretch once. Took out three cars and a taco stand.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Gabriel was the first to sit up, ears perked. “Wait, what?!”

Cassie leaned her head out from behind a bunk curtain. “Taco stand?”

Mark, already seated with his tablet, raised a brow. “All right. You’ve got our attention.”

Thane chuckled, standing and moving up toward the front with his coffee in hand. “Okay, spill it, old man. What happened?”

Diesel kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other gesturing loosely as if he were just ordering a sandwich, not reliving total chaos. “’93. Northern Idaho. I was haulin’ a metal band in an RV that smelled like beer, leather, and unresolved childhood trauma. They made me pull over for tacos from this roadside cart at the base of Cougar Pass.”

Gabriel nodded solemnly. “Solid decision.”

“Yeah, except the taco guy was this ex-skydiver named Jorge who used to hang his hot sauce bottles from the ceiling by parachute cord. No idea why.”

Mark muttered, “You’re makin’ this up.”

Diesel ignored him. “So we’re standing there, tacos in hand, when this overloaded logging truck comes barreling down the pass like it’s late for Armageddon. Misses the curve. Tips the whole rig into the stand. Tacos go flyin’. Jorge dives through the service window and somersaults into a ditch. Like a ninja.”

Thane’s eyes widened. “You’re serious.”

“He had a broken wrist and a bag of jalapeños in his teeth when we found him.”

Jonah gasped. “That’s the most metal thing I’ve ever heard.”

“And the band?”

“Wrote a song about it,” Diesel said, smirking. “Called it ‘Burn the Brakes, Save the Salsa.’ You’ve probably heard it. Big on college radio in the late ‘90s.”

Everyone stared.

Cassie snorted first. Then Gabriel cracked up, tail wagging. Mark just shook his head. “I need to start writing this stuff down.”

Diesel kept his sunglasses on, completely unfazed. “I’ve got stories from twenty-eight states, four countries, and one really sketchy ferry crossing in Newfoundland. Y’all sit tight long enough, I’ll tell you ‘bout the time I outran a tornado with a ska band and a drunk goat.”

Thane grinned and leaned against the dashboard frame. “You’re hired for life, old man.”

Diesel just grunted, shifting gears. “Yeah. I figured.”