McQueen is surprised to see him there, to say the least. Storm's pretty sure he hears " - not your game, Storm" as McQueen blows past, and that much is true. Dirt is child's play. Forgiving in ways that asphalt will never be, snatching speed like it's trying to keep you back. He remembers his mother back home, spraying down the street in summer, to keep the dust down. No, not his mother. A maid.

Dirt is something you graduate from. Or if you're lucky, you never have to endure it at all. It's hell beneath him, distractingly. bumpy. Storm picks up the pace.

He must be going faster than he feels, because even on dirt he catches up to McQueen in no time, is posed to pass him around the corner - hairpin, hold the curve - the look on McQueen's face is indescribable.

That, Storm's not used to. As far as he's concerned, McQueen has approximately four emotions and no control over any of them. But this is -

Storm feels his back end swing out, tires losing their grip on the road, and he's sailing, sailing -

When he hits the cacti at the bottom of the canyon, he knows what he saw. Devilish mirth. Turns out McQueen's just as much of an asshole as the rest of them.

That's comforting.

He doesn't let the tow truck touch him. Gale will discover him missing soon enough, he figures. She'll call someone else.

The sun begins to set.

Then it's dark at the bottom of the canyon.

He's not helpless. He does try. But he has no purchase, is too front-heavy. Doesn't have the height to be particularly acrobatic, unlike that ridiculous French car he'd passed on the way into town. That car had been doing backflips off a wooden ramp, landing flat on his roof each time - bless his roll cage, Storm harrumphs - but never stopping.

Headlights. Finally! Gale must have noticed.

"Are you... really?" says a voice, not Gale. McQueen again. And if that's pity he hears - also not one of McQueen's officially sanctioned emotions, according to Storm - Storm's gonna put him into the next wall he can find.

"It's been hours," says McQueen.

Storm's not in the habit of responding to obvious statements of fact, and he's not about to start now.

"Where's Gale?" Storm asks. He keeps his voice matte, toneless, which is a feat when you're speaking around a cactus.

McQueen shouldn't answer, should withhold the information and make a snide game of it, but he misses his opportunity and answers straight, inasmuch as he can. "I dunno, I think she went off with Mack somewhere."

McQueen pauses, then utters a vaguely bemused huh! as something dawns on him.

Storm's not sure why he's the only one who seems to find it annoying that there's always something dawning on the guy.

"Mater can help, you know," McQueen offers, from the top of the cliff. "Though I think his standard rate for out-of-towners is $32,000."

Storms also not in the habit of responding to jokes that aren't funny, and so stays silent. For a bit. When the glint of white headlight against the dirt before him fades and McQueen says nothing more, Storm knows he's alone again. But he shouts, "Take your corn pone humor elsewhere!"

Just in case.

An avalanche of sand and flinty shale peppers him in response. Then he hears gravel clattering through rotors and a great whoosh as two tons of metal hits the bottom of the canyon, splitting a nearby cacti open on impact. Its juice hits Storm's side, sticky and cold.

"You're not the only one who's sat down here all night, you know," says McQueen, beside him now.

Storm feels pressure at his back, then a sharp rap as McQueen shoves him forward, up and over his downed cactus until he's got four wheels back on the ground, sitting level at the bottom of the ravine. No way back up, though.

"So how're you gonna get back up? Or are you just used to the bottom these days," says Storm. He's not asking McQueen for advice; he's just asking McQueen to prove himself. The distinction is important.

"I've only ever found one way back up, Storm," says McQueen. "You gotta ask for help."

Storm rolls his eyes. He's spent far too long at the bottom of this ravine to be getting fortune cookie advice from Lightning McQueen. "So what, I say please and thank you and your tow truck friend hauls us back up? You got him lurking in the shadows up there just so you can teach me a life lesson?"

"No," McQueen snaps, defensive. Still not used to the old man mentor role, obviously.

Then McQueen says, "Wait."

Then he says, "Oh no."

Then he swears.

"You didn't think this through, did you," says Storm. "Pre-race party's probably kicking up about now. Loud music, generally raucous... jubilation." The last word sticks in his mouth, the way things do when you name something at the same time as you're judging it.

No one's gonna hear them. No one's gonna think to look. They're gonna be stuck down here 'til morning.

"Well, they'll notice I'm gone," McQueen assures himself.

"Sure, champ," Storm sneers, back in his element. "I mean, we always do."

"I should have left you down here," McQueen mutters. "I could have left you down here."

And now, this is something Ray quotes at him all the time, but it's not until just now, when Storm sees it on someone else - someone not him - that he begins to understand what it's even supposed to mean. At least, he's pretty sure.

So he quotes it, too. "Pride goeth, McQueen."

After the glare he receives in return, he knows he's got it right.