<Chapter Text
The phone rang.
It was late. Way too late for Doc’s liking. Maybe so late that it was already early again. He groaned and turned over in bed to look at the alarm clock. It showed one hour past midnight, already Saturday, which meant he didn't have to work today.
Normally, no one ever called him this late unless it was a medical emergency.
He grabbed his phone and froze. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe normally as he saw who was calling him.
Normally, everything was fine. He lived in the small town he called home after running away from his own past. He'd been good at it. Running away and all that. And as a doctor, he was now well-accepted in the town. Normally, not much could ruffle his feathers. He had his routines, his well-established life, the daily grind he went through day after day, the work that often followed a similar pattern, and the time afterward that he spent mostly at home. Even though he sometimes visited the diner in the town or the other residents, he rarely left this town.
The last time in the past twelve years had been for two medical emergencies outside the town where he had to help. And for buying groceries, which always followed the same pattern.
Almost every day was the same. He got up, changed his clothes, freshened up for the day, and went to the kitchen. He made two cups of coffee, one for himself and one that he put on the empty spot at the table and poured away after breakfast because the person it was meant for wasn't even there anymore. Both coffees were without sugar, without milk, not the way Doc liked it, but the way he had liked it.
After breakfast, he was usually at his small clinic, but there wasn't much going on there most of the time.
And when he lay in bed at night, he sometimes wondered what in his life still brought him joy. Every day was the same.
But he didn't like changes anyway.
He sat up. His fingers curled around the buzzing phone. He stared at the phone number and wondered if he was still asleep. He squinted, shut his eyes firmly, and opened them widely after that to make sure he was awake, but there was no mistaking it. The phone was still ringing. It was his best friend's number, without any doubt. His name was on the display, the letters blurring the longer Doc stared at them. He fooled himself by pretending that he suddenly couldn't read anymore and that the name wasn't even there.
His best friend had died twelve years ago.
Doc huffed and put the phone back on the nightstand to let it ring. Apparently, someone had gotten his best friend's number and then dialed the wrong number. Of course, that was the simplest explanation, and Doc settled back into bed. But the thought that life went on, that someone had gotten his friend's number, hurt, and all in all, it was a crazy feeling. No one was supposed to get that number.
The phone went silent.
He closed his eyes and started thinking about the name on the display. It made him feel pain in his chest. More than he would’ve expected. He'd always been good at burying it. So deep that his feelings and thoughts suffocated, and he could just live. Or rather, survive. But sooner or later, the past catches up with you anyway. Doc knew it, but he'd hoped it would happen later, sometime when he was really old, had gray hair (more than now), was sitting in some nursing home, looking out the window, and hopefully had dementia and would forget. However, he also thought that maybe wishing for dementia was a bad thing.
He sighed.
The phone rang again, and he reached out to turn it off.
But something inside him hesitated. Perhaps a spark of kindness amidst his bitterness, a desire to answer and tell the person they'd dialed the wrong number. Perhaps also a hint of curiosity. Or maybe the worry that it was indeed an emergency and he'd be acting negligently if he didn't answer.
Whatever it was, it won, and he picked up the phone while still lying on his side, and answered. "You've dialed the wrong number," he said directly, scratching his mustache thoughtfully, but there was no reason to beat around the bush.
“Are you The Fabulous Hudson?” a young voice asked, and Doc’s heart nearly stopped. He was sure it skipped a beat. He sat up immediately, swung his legs out of bed, and as his feet touched the cold floor, he ran a hand over his face.
“I don’t know who that is,” Doc lied then, probably too quickly to make the lie believable, even though, theoretically, it wasn’t a complete lie. After all, who was The Fabulous Hudson? By now, Doc didn’t know this man anymore. That man was still in Thomasville, far away from here, where only Doctor Paul Hudson lived. And there was a reason he had worked so hard for so long to ensure that hardly anyone knew him in connection with the fabulous race car driver. Even if that meant he had lost himself.
However, he was sure he hadn’t lost himself. He knew where The Fabulous Hudson was, but chose not to give him any space. There was nothing fabulous about him anymore.
He had buried the past, and by now he was even proud of having managed to remain unknown for so long.
“You’re Paul Hudson, right?” The young man, maybe even still a kid, asked.
Doc gritted his teeth. His legal name was always associated with him as a doctor. However, he was usually just known as Doc. He'd gotten used to it.
What a coincidence, though, that the number in question knew him.
Doc frowned. It made no sense. It wasn't a random call, because how could a stranger have gotten his private number? Why did they call from his friend’s old number? And why did they know he was the fabulous Paul Hudson?
"Who's calling?" Doc asked, pinching the bridge of his nose in hope he would wake up soon, and it would have been morning, anything else just a bad dream. But this was too real to be a dream. He could feel his heart pounding hard against his chest.
"I need your help." The boy sounded a little desperate but didn’t tell who he was. His voice felt like it was haunting Doc, biting somewhere in the back of his mind, but he couldn't completely grasp why it felt so familiar.
He had been an expert at drowning memories, suppressing those things he once called joyous moments.
"Do you know Samuel McQueen?" Doc asked, testing how the name sounded on his lips after all these years of not mentioning it. Never mentioning it. It was ridiculous, Doc thought. Why would the unknown boy know his best friend? The numbers were probably a coincidence. A simple mistake. Smokey had been dead for a long time.
It was dark outside. The silence of the desert enveloped him. It was also dark in the room. Only the phone glowed faintly as he still held it to his ear.
"Yeah. That's my dad," the kid said, and Doc stood up instantly.
He dropped the phone.
It fell on the ground.
No.
No, that can't be…
Samuel's boy.
He stared at the phone, which was now lying on the ground, and blinked a few times in a desperate attempt to make sense of the situation.
He crouched down, picked it up again, and stood up straight.
"How do you know me?" Doc managed to ask even with wobbly legs that were barely able to hold him upright. Too much time had passed for the kid to remember Doc.
"I…," the kid began but hesitated. Doc did the math. The kid was 18 years old, if he had calculated correctly. He could still remember the small blond boy who had stood next to him in the pit lane, with a broad grin and blue eyes. He looked at Doc, happy that he was allowed to be there. He then looked at the racetrack, watching his father do some practice laps in the fancy golden car.
"I don't think I know you that well. It's been a long time," the kid said. "But I'm pretty sure you remember me."
A moment of silence passed.
Of course, Doc knew him. Of course, he remembered the kid. But the other memories came flooding back, those that haunted him so often, just like now the blue eyes of that little boy.
He had repressed it, never considered that he would ever come into contact with him because, as he saw it, there was no reason to. The reason that had connected them both was gone. A new reason had been replacing the other. A reason to never go back.
"I remember you," Doc said, his voice trembling more than he wanted to show. "Where did you get my number?" he asked.
"I have my dad's phone."
Doc nodded. That made sense. Maybe the question had been unnecessary but he was still tired and trying his best to catch up.
So the number really did still belong to Smokey. More or less.
He started pacing around, the phone in one hand, the other hand on his hair, holding just enough of it to feel the gentle grounding pull. "How do you know I exist?" Doc asked then but felt that it sounded stupid in the same breath. It wasn’t impossible for the kid to remember the first six years of his life. Quite the opposite even. Trauma could disturb the memory though.
"There's a picture. You and my dad and my mom. On the back of it... it says..." The boy paused, probably becoming emotional himself. Doc swallowed. The boy had lost his parents too soon. “My dad wrote something. It says that if I ever need anything and he isn’t around… then I should ask you.”
And somehow it felt like a punch to the gut. This far too great honor was something Doc didn’t deserve. Doc was convinced of that. He stopped pacing around, let go of his hair, and was silent for a while.
But after everything, Doc felt it was his duty. “What do you need?” He didn’t hesitate anymore, even though everything inside him screamed to hang up immediately, throw the phone out the window, and literally bury it somewhere in the desert the next morning and wait for the coyotes to dig it up and steal it.
“I need you to bail me out of jail,” the kid said, and Doc’s mouth opened slightly. He tensed up, unable to speak for a moment.
Jail.
Oh boy, what have you done?
“What the heck did you do?” he asked, a bit too harshly, more than he wanted to. He rubbed his forehead. The boy was silent. That had been too harsh.
“I…,” Doc began, softer this time. “Listen, boy, I’m not sure if I’m the person you need right now.”
Silence.
“There’s…,” the kid said, barely above a whisper. “There’s no one else.”
Damn it.
It broke Doc’s heart in a way he couldn’t even describe. He remembered the times. He remembered lifting the boy onto the hood of his car, the boy beaming with joy, and the three of them taking a picture together.
He remembered ruffling his hair and giving him a lollipop, the boy’s eyes lit up, and he thanked Doc.
Doc wasn’t a family man. But the boy had automatically won his heart. He was the son of his best friend after all.
“I’ll pay you back. I promise,” the kid said, and Doc shook his head. It wasn't about the money at all. Not in the slightest.
"Tell me the address," Doc said, already calculating everything in his head, looking around for his clothes and shoes.
"I'm in Gallup, New Mexico. I'm not sure if that's too far or..."
"It's not," Doc said, even though it was definitely too far for him. When was the last time he'd driven four hours in the middle of the night? It felt crazy to even think about it.
The boy gave him the address, and Doc promised, "I'll be there as soon as I can," and the boy hung up after a quick thank you.
Doc lowered the phone. Had that really just happened?
And why the heck was the boy in jail?
He'd forgotten to ask. Such an important question.
He sighed.
He wanted to slap himself for that.
And he didn't even know his name.
And does the boy know what I'd done? Maybe he wouldn't have called then…
He ran a hand down his face and tossed the phone onto the bed. He took a deep breath, but it felt like it wasn't enough, like it couldn't fill his lungs completely.
What do I do?
He had a mission.
And he didn't hesitate any longer as he began to change and get ready to head out. To meet a kid he didn't know anymore, to meet the past he'd tried to bury. But the guilt grew stronger again, and in the end, it felt like he had no choice at all.
Having finished changing, he grabbed his jacket, wallet, and keys, put on his shoes, and headed outside. He had a long way to go.
He went back inside when he remembered it would be good for his bladder to use the bathroom first. But then he went outside again.
After closing the door, he made his way to the garage. The air was fresh, but not too cold. The night was peaceful and quiet, as always, because nothing ever happened here.
But the garage doors creaked all the more in the still night. He flinched at the sound because he didn't want to wake or alarm anyone. His fingers held onto the doors, trying to open them quietly, but slowness only made it worse.
That's what you get for always putting off oiling it.
He sighed and went inside. The familiar scent of oil, wood, and dust greeted him. He looked at his beloved Hornet, which brought back both good and bad memories. However, he had never stopped using it, at least as a regular road car. It always stood out, quite clearly, but it didn’t have the yellow lettering on the side anymore. It was plain blue, a poor attempt to go unnoticed.
He ignored the car parked next to it, covered with a tarp.
Doc opened the front door and tossed his jacket onto the backseat.
He was about to get into the car when he heard footsteps. His gaze drifted to the open doors. Sheriff Michael stood there, in his usual uniform, hat on his head, hand on his holster, already starting to draw his weapon, ready to fight an intruder.
Doc could hear Michael sigh in relief when he saw who he was dealing with. "I thought you were a burglar." His hand moved away from the holster and he let his arms hang loosely.
"Just me," Doc said, glad that the sheriff had realized early on that it was only him. He didn’t want to deal with an angry sheriff.
"You're never out here this late," Michael stated, matter-of-factly as he shifted from one leg to the other.
"I know," Doc simply replied. He briefly considered whether he should explain why exactly he was out here, but he hesitated.
"Is everything alright?" Michael asked, because it wasn't his business to know why Doc was out here or what he was planning, why it had to happen this late at night, and why he looked like he'd seen an alien. But it was his business to know if everything was okay.
Doc didn’t answer right away. He was standing next to the car, one hand resting on the roof of the Hornet. "There's just something I have to do," he replied, and Sheriff nodded.
"Anyone sick?" he asked, but Doc shook his head. That wasn't why he was setting out in the middle of the night.
"It's complicated," Doc replied, and Michael nodded again. He knew Doc and knew there were certain things he didn't want to talk about. Lots of things actually.
"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked, which surprised Doc a little. He couldn't hide his tiny smile, and the fact that a weight had been lifted from his shoulders was palpable. Michael cared. He was a good friend, respected Doc's boundaries and his silence, was always there when any trouble arose, and didn't press for answers. Just like now.
"That's something I have to do alone," Doc said, but added a "thanks" along with a nod.
"Alright. Drive safe then," Michael replied. "Call me if you need anything."
"I will," Doc said, deciding to keep it in mind in case anything happened and the criminal kid had messed up more than Doc could handle. Though he was certain that no one could mess up more than he himself did. Was the kid even a criminal? In any case, he was in jail. On the other hand, it wasn't so bad as to be hopeless. Apparently, Doc was allowed to pay the bail so he would be released. That meant he probably hadn't messed up too badly. At least that's what Doc deeply hoped.
He got in the car, shut the door, leaned back, and sighed. A few seconds passed as he enjoyed the silence and peace before the long drive. Then he started the engine, and the old Hornet’s engine began to stutter and then came to life, the sound never failing to impress.
He slowly pulled away, raising his hand for a quick goodbye to Michael, who lifted his hat slightly in farewell.
The journey could begin.
And Doc was anything but ready.
The town flashed by as he pulled onto the long road that led to the Interstate. It was unusual for him to have such a distant destination, and even more so to be driving at night.
The Hornet's old headlights thankfully still worked perfectly, and Doc didn't seem to have forgotten how to pay attention in the dark.
Samuel was smart. Both book smart and street smart. Rarely did anything throw him off, and Smokey almost always had a witty remark ready.
Doc remembered, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," but Doc was starting to seriously doubt whether that was really true. The more years passed without Smokey, the more he missed him, and it hurt. On the other hand, maybe that was exactly what it meant. The more time passed, the bigger the void grew in Doc's heart, a void that wept with emptiness.
Doc wouldn't have considered himself as smart as Samuel was. Of course, Doc knew what he was doing. He'd studied for many years to be able to practice medicine, and he could read people better than some by now, but he forgot a lot. Perhaps that wasn't unusual because who from all the people he knew could remember things that well except Smokey?
But what was perhaps unusual was his difficulty remembering the past. The recent past was okay. He remembered patients who kept coming back, remembered taking out the trash, never missing the weekly chess game with Sheriff, arriving in Radiator Springs, the day everyone took him in, the thing with his heart… he remembered that. But he didn't remember enough about Smokey, and that hurt. He remembered their childhood, the times they'd spent together, the time when he’d moved in, and he remembered the day the accident happened. But even though he remembered some things, other situations before and after the accident were blurry; only snippets were clear in his mind, and somehow the kid's name didn't appear there.
How could he just forget a whole name like that?
"You can't unscramble eggs," Smokey always said, which was true because Doc couldn't turn back time. And if he could, he would have done it without hesitation, even if it meant sacrificing himself. He wouldn't have hesitated even a little.
Doc gripped the steering wheel tightly. The Interstate was busy, despite the late hour, and car lights flashed past him. He let his mind wander, trying to come up with solutions for problems he couldn't fix.
"If it ain't broke, don't fix it," Smokey often said, staring at his car, which he basically held together with duct tape. As long as it worked, he didn't touch it.
And if something did break during the next race and they lost because of it, Smokey would just say, "You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs."
Doc wasn't sure what Samuel had with the eggs, but he would always nod and say something like, "It'll work next time," and they would forget about the dilemma.
“Actions speak louder than words,” Smokey had sometimes said. Then they had sat side by side in silence, letting their thoughts wander.
Soft guitar music filled the dark night as Doc made his way from the garage to the house. It smelled of cedar. The porch light was on, and Doc sat down on the steps next to Smokey, who was softly strumming the melodies he so often made up, guitar in hand.
"Kid's asleep?" Doc asked.
Smokey glanced up briefly, nodded, and then looked back at his fingers trying to play a tune. "Yeah, he's had a long day," Smokey said, smiling. "He was so wound up, I thought he'd have trouble settling down. But he was out the second I tucked him in.
"His first time karting and he was amazing," Doc said, thinking of the beaming young boy as he excitedly drove around the track, crashing into the walls a few times but never once complaining.
"He is amazing," Smokey confirmed. "As fast as his dad." He grinned and Doc nudged him.
"Dad with an attitude."
"Oh come on. Last time I was faster than you," Smokey said.
“That’s true. I have to give you that.“
Smokey raised an arm in victory, and the melody stopped. His hands found their way back to the guitar to continue.
"Daddy," a small voice called out, barely five years old. They both turned to the front door. The little boy stood there in his yellow pajamas—the one with the tiny light blue race cars on it—eyes wide awake as if it were the middle of the day.
"So much to fast asleep," Doc murmured to Smokey, who then put his guitar aside and patted his lap. The boy understood the gesture and padded barefoot to his father.
Smokey lifted him onto his lap and wrapped his arms around the boy. "Can't sleep?"
The boy shook his head. "There's a monster under my bed."
"Ah, I see," Smokey replied, stroking his hair. "Do you want me to come with you?"
"Can Uncle Hud come with me?" the boy asked. "He's a good monster hunter."
“Sure,” Smokey said, chuckling, and looked at Doc, who nodded. After all, who could ever refuse that kid anything? And somewhere deep down, he might have suspected as much. Last time Smokey couldn't put the boy to bed because he had to run an errand and Doc was babysitting, he'd been shooing away every monster in the whole town. And apparently, it had worked well.
Doc got up and followed the little kiddo, who was already running ahead, up the stairs to his room. Doc followed and stepped into the room.
“Where are they hiding?” he asked, taking his job very seriously.
Kiddo pointed to the bed, or more precisely, underneath it, where darkness swallowed the light.
“Let’s see,” Doc said, kneeling down in front of the bed and taking a look underneath. He couldn’t find a monster. “What exactly is hiding there?” he asked, because even Kiddo knew that there were no monsters, but they both called any unusual or creepy noise or shadow a monster.
"There was a noise," Kiddo said quietly, looking at Doc.
"Under the bed?"
Kiddo nodded, clutching a dinosaur plushie.
"Hmm," Doc mumbled. "I’ll take care of whatever dared to startle you," he mumbled.
"I'm asking for my monster hunter assistant," Doc said, and Kiddo smiled a little, came over and knelt beside him, less scared than before. "Let's take another look, shall we?" Doc asked, and Kiddo nodded again.
They looked together. Far in the back, in a corner, lay a marble.
"Were you playing with marbles today?" Doc asked.
"Yes, with Daddy," Kiddo replied.
"Is there a possibility that you still had some in bed, and when you turned over, one fell on the floor?" Doc asked, and Kiddo's face softened in realization.
“Oh,” he said, surprised and giggling. “Yes! My marble!”
The boy crawled under the bed and retrieved his marble, and when he came back, he held it up excitedly like a trophy.
Like father, like son.
“Good job, assistant,” Doc said happily, loving the boy’s beaming smile.
Doc smiled weakly. At least he remembered that situation.
“But what’s your name?” Doc mumbled to himself, gripping the steering wheel tightly, trying to picture the boy’s face as best he could, but no name appeared in his mind. It was weird, unusual, but maybe it was just like forgetting the names of classmates he had when he was little. Though that had been a long time ago. Maybe twelve years were enough to forget. Maybe his brain tried to protect him.
He tried to recall more of Smokey’s catchphrases for help, but the only thing he could remember at that moment was “All Roads Lead to Rome.” And he wasn’t sure how that could’ve helped him at that moment.
His current road led from Arizona to New Mexico.
And the road was long.
