She grabbed her sketchbook and pencils from the side table and curled up on the end of the bed. When she unmuted the TV, the commentators had shifted to live shots; the camera perched somewhere high above the pits, looking down on the grid of trailers, awnings, and taped-off rectangles.
From up here, the world she had walked through yesterday looked like a toy set; tiny people moving between splashes of color; the bikes slim as matchsticks on their stands.
She let her pencil start moving. Broad strokes first; blocking in the shapes; the canyon of haulers; the spine of the main lane. Her lines steadied her; always had. When the rest of her felt shaky, her hands usually remembered what to do with graphite and paper.
Her phone buzzed again.
Bree?
She smiled.
Yeah, she replied.
Love that you want to help, his next text read. Remember, the best thing you can do for me today is stay safe. Let me handle the ugly.
Heat prickled behind her eyes; not tears exactly; something heavier.
You handle the ugly, she wrote. I’ll handle the pretty.
Deal, he sent.
On screen, one of the cameras zoomed in on the tech inspection area. The announcers’ tone brightened; words like “pre-race checks” and “safety protocols” floated over the image.
She watched the officials move from bike to bike, checking levers, looking at screens, bending to peer into frame gaps. They looked oddly gentle with the machines, like doctors with patients.
A line of text ran along the bottom of the screen: identifiers; team names; numbers. She saw Hank’s name flick past: Hank James, number twenty-four; Copper Moon Performance.
Her chest gave that little lurch when she saw his name in print.
The camera shifted again, panning toward a section of pits she recognized even from this distance.
Red and black dominated the frame. The Red Dragons’ hauler gleamed; their pit taped off neatly. Heidi stood with one hand on her hip, sunglasses on, hair perfect, posture loose in a way that did not match the tension in her jaw.
Marcus and Stoke were both in shot; Stoke pacing; Marcus talking to one of the judges; Einstein behind them near Marcus’s bike.
Bree’s hand tightened on her pencil.
Her phone buzzed.
They’re with Julie now, Hank wrote. Clean check. Dragons are next.
She looked back at the TV.
The camera zoomed; the commentators started the kind of upbeat chatter they used when something might be interesting. They talked about “a closer look,” “rumors of stricter enforcement,” and “whispers in the paddock,” careful and vague.
One of the tech officials pointed toward Marcus’s bike. Another rolled a cart closer. Einstein looked stiff even at this distance; shoulders too high; hands a little too still.
“Hands off the bikes for a moment,” one of the officials said; his voice picked up by a boom mic somewhere.
The pit microphones did not always catch every word, but they caught enough. Heidi’s complaint about timing, Stoke’s exaggerated sigh, Marcus’s smooth reassurance that his team had nothing to hide.
The horn, Bree thought.
Her heart started to climb.
Her phone vibrated in her lap.
Eyes on Dragons, Hank wrote. Mac’s pushing for deeper checks. Breathe for me.
