Jake Turner was the kind of man who could fix anything with wheels. His garage sat on the edge of a small town in Arizona, where dust covered the windows and the smell of oil never left the air. He spent most of his days with his sleeves rolled up and his hands blackened with grease, talking more to engines than to people. Cars were his language, and every spark, every vibration, every hum meant something to him.

He had no wife or kids, just a loyal dog named Rusty who slept near the toolbox and a dream that burned quietly inside him. Jake wanted to build his own sports car. Not a copy of something flashy from Europe or Detroit, but a machine born from his heart, something that could roar across the desert like a living thing. He had sketches pinned to the wall, outlines of curves, cylinders, and air vents that only he could understand. The dream was still far away, but every repair he did brought him one step closer.

On a quiet afternoon, he was under a customer’s old sedan, tightening bolts near the transmission. The radio played soft country music, and sunlight came through the open door in a golden stripe. Rusty barked once, then went quiet again. Jake hummed, thinking about how to shape a lighter engine block. He wanted to make it faster, smoother, more powerful than anything else in town.

He had worked in big auto shops before but left because he hated how everything had become about money. He wanted to build for love, not for price tags. Sometimes at night, he would walk outside and look at the stars, wondering what it would feel like to finally create something new, something the world had never seen.

Then came the sound. A deep metal creak above his head. He froze. The lift holding the car shuddered. He pushed himself out from under it, but the bolt near the chain slipped. Before he could move again, the heavy frame came down.

A flash. Pain. Silence.

Jake felt his breath stop. The world turned white, then gray. He heard Rusty barking but fading away like a dream. His thoughts slowed, then scattered like dust in the wind. For a long time, there was nothing but darkness.

When he opened his eyes again, the air was strange. It smelled of grass, fire, and something sweet like wood smoke. He was lying on the ground, not in his garage but in an open field. Above him were clouds drifting in a deep blue sky. He sat up slowly, touching the dirt, the rough grass, the strange stillness around him. His clothes were the same, covered in oil stains, but the sounds were all wrong. No cars, no hum of machines, no engines anywhere.

In the distance, he saw people—men pulling wooden carts, horses tied to fences, smoke rising from a village made of wooden houses. He blinked, thinking he must be dreaming. He walked closer, and they stared at him like he was from another planet.

A man shouted something he couldn’t understand. Two children hid behind a fence. Jake raised his hands to show he meant no harm. He tried to ask where he was, but his words made them frown. Then an older man stepped forward, looking at Jake’s clothes, touching the metal wrench still hanging from his belt.

The man spoke slowly, his tone cautious. Jake didn’t understand much, but one thing was clear—this was not the America he knew. No highways, no electricity, no cars. Just horses, carts, and smoke.

He stood there in the middle of that dirt road, looking around, and a wild thought filled his mind. If this world had no cars, no engines, no machines, then maybe fate had given him a second chance.

He took a deep breath. The dream he had died chasing might begin again here.

And somewhere deep inside, he could already hear it—the faint hum of the first engine yet to be born.