I am pausing you at six seconds, just after you turn from the hood of the old blue Mercury to look back at the camera, at me, though I am not there (not yet), not the one recording how the wind, as you adjust the ignition coil, will whip across your lips the loose strands of your hair, or how, beneath your fingers, the Ironhorse will fire again, so loudly that everything— even the camera—will shake with the force of three thousand horses.