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Shore is at the wheel again, his wing-and-prayer a leprous crate of rusty pocks and mottled reds. He’s been driving the thing since he was a kid and can’t believe she’s purring still. But that ol’ Mustang, how he loves her, might as well be his second skin. It takes him four tries before Siri gets it right, agrees to stream the playlist his wife had labeled Loud. Aside from a token Meat Loaf, metal rules. He doesn’t much care for the heavy stuff, has never understood the appeal, but the strains keep her memory alive somehow, which makes him