Rourke had walked out. And for five years, he’d survived—narrowly—by running older routes, slower speeds, and cheaper (riskier) cargo. But today, the road was winning.

She watched his dot lurch forward, then veer left onto the green path. Leo exhaled.

“No catch. But I will tell you this: next week, you’ll have another landslide. Or a bridge closure. Or a fuel price spike that the Portal predicts three days in advance. You can keep fighting alone, or you can join the network. We’re not a leash, Mr. Rourke. We’re a map.”

“How do you know?”

Another silence. Longer. Then a low, bitter laugh.

Elara was a “Transition Specialist,” which was a polite title for a digital shepherd. Her job was to onboard the stubborn. She’d been successful forty-one times. Rourke would be number forty-two.