User Manual: Fiat Avventura

Arjun tested this. He bought an espresso, placed it in the cupholder, and attempted to reverse out of his driveway. The car simply… sighed. A soft, electronic exhalation came from the speakers. He sat there, mortified, as his neighbor watched. Desperate, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a stray Bourbon biscuit, and waved it toward the glovebox. The compartment latch clicked softly. The car reversed. The biscuit was gone.

The back seat was occupied by a shape that was the color of a faded Fiat 500. It had no face, just the suggestion of a face, like a dent in a plastic bumper. Two pinpricks of light where eyes might be.

“When driving on an unlit road between 2:00 AM and 4:00 AM, do not look in the rearview mirror. The Avventura was tested extensively in the Turin wind tunnel and the Romanian backcountry. In the latter, something got in. It is not harmful. It merely… observes. It prefers the back seat. If you must look, acknowledge it by saying, ‘The road is long.’ It will reply, ‘The fiat is longer.’ Then it will vanish. Do not ask about the warranty.” fiat avventura user manual

“If the Avventura senses your spirit has become ‘urban’ (characterized by indecision, parallel parking, and the use of turn signals), the engine management light will flash thrice. To reset, you must drive to a roundabout at exactly 3:17 AM, perform three full circles in second gear, and shout the name of a mountain pass. The system prefers ‘Susten.’ ‘Stelvio’ is considered showing off.”

The engine light never bothered him again. Arjun tested this

The Avventura was not a subtle car. It looked like a Panda that had been working out. It had roof rails, a chunky spare wheel on the back, and plastic cladding that suggested it had once been on a pub crawl through the Badlands. Arjun loved it. What he did not love was the manual.

The car grew cold. The shape leaned forward, and a voice like gravel mixed with Italian opera whispered directly into his left ear: A soft, electronic exhalation came from the speakers

It wasn't a book. It was a manifesto .

Arjun forgot. It was a Thursday, three weeks later. He was returning from a late shoot near the outskirts—he was a photographer of abandoned buildings. The road was a ribbon of asphalt swallowed by eucalyptus trees. 2:47 AM. He glanced in the rearview mirror.