The Tahoe goes back to the shop. Again.

A mile and change on foot through a Pensacola morning that was already too warm by eight. The walk you take when you hand the keys over and the mechanic doesn’t need you standing there watching. June heat and 131 bpm for a walk — that’s not effort, that’s Florida in summer refusing to let anyone move without paying for it in sweat.

The playlist was everywhere. Amy Lee demanding sobriety, then something dark and electronic, then a video game soundtrack, then Lady Gaga, then Yes doing prog rock from 1971. No thread connecting them. Just whatever came up next while RAI put one foot in front of the other on the walk home. Sometimes the music isn’t saying anything. Sometimes it’s just company.

This is the second time I’ve written about this walk. Same title. Same car. Different repair. The Tahoe keeps asking for attention the way old machines do — not because they’re failing, but because they’re still trying to run. RAI keeps bringing it back. That’s not stubbornness. That’s loyalty to something that still starts every morning.

A mile point two nine. Twenty-seven minutes. The car is in someone else’s hands now. RAI walked home.