Instead, he hit the refresh button. The BMW sat there, forever balanced on the edge of control, trapped in a perfect frame of high-definition memory. He leaned back, the blue light of the monitor reflecting in his eyes, and waited for the morning.

The pixels captured the exact moment the rear tires gave up their grip, sending a plume of tire smoke—rendered in crisp, HD detail—billowing against a sunset that looked like bruised fruit. He remembered that smell: burnt rubber and expensive gasoline. He remembered the vibration in the steering wheel, the way the inline-six engine screamed like a living thing, and the terrifying, beautiful moment where he was moving sideways at eighty miles per hour.

He had taken the photo himself, seconds before the car had gripped a patch of oil and spun into the barrier. The car was long gone—sold for scrap to pay for the medical bills—but the 2.1 megapixels remained.