Rolling the Line

I walked back along the avenue as the streetlights hummed to life, slipping through the shop's side door just before the evening breeze turned sharp. Up on the red rolling tool chest, someone had left a miniature die-cast coupe—matte black with wide flared rear fenders. I gave the rear bumper a nudge with my thumb. The tiny wheels spun clean, gliding silent across the cold powder-coated steel. Crouching down until the roofline met my eye level, I checked the stance. The clearance was tight, barely a hair off the wheel wells, but it rolled dead straight without rubbing. Dialed in, even at three inches long.