The wheel turns. No one is turning it.

I knew this would happen. I requested this. I paid for this. Still, my hands float up from my lap, unsure where to go.

“Turning left,” the voice says. Calm. Female. Unbothered by the fact that it is piloting two tons of metal through an intersection while I sit here like luggage.

A cyclist appears. I brace. The car doesn’t brake—it knew. Adjusted half a block ago. Slid us into the next lane while I was still processing the threat.

I am the slowest intelligence in this vehicle.

At a red light, a woman in a Corolla glances over. I watch her eyes sweep the front seat, the back seat, the front again. Looking for the driver. Finding me, sitting behind no one.

Her face does something complicated.

I almost wave. I don’t know why. To prove I’m real? To apologize?

The light changes. She pulls ahead quickly, not looking back.

A pickup truck drifts toward us. The car adjusts. The truck corrects. We continue. No honk. No adrenaline. Just math, happening quietly.

“Arriving in three minutes,” the voice says.

I have been holding my breath. I don’t know for how long.

The wheel turns again. I watch it like a child watching a magic trick, waiting for the thread to show, the mirror to slip.

It doesn’t.

I still don’t trust it.

But I’m starting to suspect that’s my problem, not its.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​