"Okay, everyone! You know the drill!" Sally shouts, dispensing earmuffs and bottles of fuel additive. She's only been in town about ten months, but already they have drills.

"How does someone from California know so much about cold weather?" Sheriff asks. He doesn't object to anything in particular, but once of Chicagoland, always of Chicagoland, and he can't just swallow that regional pride.

"Mammoth Mountain exists," Sally shrugs. "Come on, Sheriff, you know what cold can do to an older car!"

Beside him, Doc chuckles. "Kids these days and their electronic ignitions. Ain't that right?" he says, once Sally's out of earshot.

Sheriff wants to invoke the snowstorms and lake effect of his youth, but he knows that even in Radiator Springs, winter is nothing to joke about. They don't get much snow in the valley, but temperatures can drop in a heartbeat, and Sheriff has to admit, it's hard on all of them.

One night, some years ago, Sheriff had been stationed at his usual nighttime patrol point on the outskirts of town and his battery had up and died, life sucked right out of it by the season. He hadn't been able to move, and if his friends hadn't been so quick to miss his presence he's not sure what might have happened. Batteries can be replaced, but your soul–it wanders sometimes, if you go too long without that spark inside you.

Sheriff doesn't take his winter patrols alone anymore.

"Does everyone remember who their winter buddy is?" Sally calls out, having made her rounds throughout the town.

Doc looks at Sheriff, and Sheriff looks at Doc, and in unison they say, "It's going to be a long winter, isn't it."

Within twenty minutes of buddies having been assigned, Mater's calling Sally his fiancee.

–

Of course, as winter buddies go, the time Sheriff spends in Doc's company is no more nor less. He hadn't realized it until that time became compulsory, but once the realization's out there, it feels cozy.

"Everyone keeping warm?" Sally shouts, as she makes her evening rounds. Doc rolls his eyes. But truthfully, no one minds her fussing. Sally's just doing her best to keep the town safe.

"Toastier than ever!" Sheriff calls out. And it's true; he's feeling very toasty. Maybe it's the earmuffs.

He'd never worn them in Chicago, he tells Doc. He doesn't think much about his life before Radiator Springs, and speaks of it even less, but winter always brings it out. Sometimes, when the cold outside turns the windows filmy with frost and the wind batters the garage doors, he waits for Doc to return the stories.

He never does. But Doc's silence has long since turned cozy, too.

If anything, it's a little too cozy in the garage. Sheriff removes his earmuffs, but the relief is temporary. Now he's running outright hot, steaming in the cold air.

"Sheriff," Doc says, calm and measured. It's his way of asking, What's wrong?

"You know, Doc, I'm not rightly sure," says Sheriff.

"Good, that's good," says Doc. "You keep yourself talking, all right?"

Swiftly, Doc pops Sheriff's hood and tells him to shift into neutral and rev his engine. Doc listens. It's all very clinical, the way Doc always is when it comes to doctoring.

"Busted pump," he says, eventually, though without a new one the diagnosis means very little. Sheriff's fever is now full-blown. "We'll have to order one."

Sheriff nods, though the motion sends a shudder through his frame. Then all he can hear is the low grinding of his own parts.

In that moment, Doc stops being clinical. Whatever the dangers of winter, what they need right now is to cool Sheriff down. He could put Sheriff under, probably, because a dead engine is a cold engine, but it'll take a few days, at least, for the new pump, and that's a risky timeframe. Souls wander, especially in winter. Especially when they talk too much about Chicago.

So Doc pushes Sheriff out of the garage and into the unprotected cold.

Sally's on them in an instant, demanding explanations. Doc gives her a task. Call up Antonio down in–

Doc stops.

"No. Sally, I'm gonna need you to run an errand."

It'll be faster than waiting for the mail, which always stalls and slogs come winter. Sally will be faster.

Sally takes off like, well, a Porsche. And there, in the dark chill of winter, waits Sheriff. Doc never leaves his side.

The rest is hazy, as Sheriff's fever takes him beyond the realm of cognizance. But Doc is there, Doc is talking, Doc is every so often imploring him to pay attention, to listen, to keep it together because Sally is coming; Sally is coming back soon.

Through all this, Doc tells stories. Hours upon hours of them–but never about himself. "That would put you to sleep," he objects. "And we're trying to avoid that." Instead, Doc tells stories of the town. Silly little things he's observed and accrued and held inside him. A little story about Red. What he'd first thought about Sally; what he thinks now. A secret he'd overhead Fillmore telling a potted plant. What makes Ramone most angry in the world. Everything he remembers about Sheriff's Chicago, which gets them through the better part of the night.

"You're a good listener," says Sheriff, faintly.

"And I'll keep on being one for a good while yet," says Doc. "I aim to see you outlive me, Sheriff. You'll be okay. You're gonna need that time to tell all your stories."

Sheriff coughs and his eyelids flutter, but his engine doesn't falter. He says, "You too."