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NARRATOR (GEORGE):
The Toy Museum has currents, like an ocean.
Soft shelves, hard shelves, loud shelves, quiet ones.

Last night, the Night Watchman nearly fell asleep
leaning against a Squishmallow—
no-questions-asked softness in pastel colors.

Tonight, the current drags him somewhere else.
Somewhere harder.
Sharper.
Louder.

Footsteps

NARRATOR:
He’s entered the vehicles area.
Rows of tiny cars.
Trucks.
Motorcycles.
Helicopters frozen mid-rescue,
race cars mid-victory lap.
And at the end of the aisle—
taking up an entire platform—
something stranger.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Well.
That’s… a lot.

NARRATOR:
Picture a semi truck
designed by a child who had equal access
to car magazines and dragon drawings.
A massive hauler with a dragon’s head at the front,
a dragon’s tail at the back,
and another dragon—smaller, meaner—
perched on top like a hungry backpack.
Orange track coils from its sides
like captured lightning.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Let me guess.
Hot Wheels?

NARRATOR:
He’s not new to the brand.
He remembers having a few tiny metal cars as a boy,
a single strip of orange track
propped on a stack of books.
One or two loops,
if you were lucky.

But this…
This looks like someone asked,
“What if the car carrier was a fire-breathing monster
that eats the traffic jam and turns into a racetrack?”

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