Is it safe for you? she wrote. Are they going to blame you for this?
No one said your name, he answered. Brian was careful; so was I. To the Dragons, this looks like Mac doing his job. I’m just another rider watching the show.
She did not like the word show, not with that much anger in the frame, but she understood what he meant.
On TV, security and police steered Stoke out of the center of the pit; the sergeant talking to him with the kind of firm patience Bree had seen cops use with drunk patrons outside bars. One of the techs kept taking photos of the exposed frame; another wrote on a clipboard; glance sharp and focused.
You saved them, she thought. You saved them from their own bad choices.
Her phone screen lit again.
How are you, pretty girl? Hank wrote. Not just watching. You.
The endearment hit her like a warm hand between her shoulder blades.
Shaky, she answered. I’m glad they found it. I kind of want to vomit. And I hate that they’re yelling at the inspectors instead of apologizing.
Same, he replied. They’ll spin it; they always do. But the bottle is out in the open. That’s not going back in the frame quietly.
On the broadcast, the commentators started talking about possible penalties, how an impounded bike complicated the lineup, and what sponsors might say. They kept their voices neutral, stretched thin over the tension like a fresh coat of paint.
Bree got up and walked to the curtains again.
She let herself open them just enough to see the edge of the track far below, a thin gray ribbon between blocks of color. She did not touch the balcony door; she was not even tempted to slide it open now. She just looked at the sliver of world she could see and tried to picture Hank in it: tall and solid and unflinching.
Her reflection hovered faintly in the glass; hair messy, eyes wide, T-shirt twisted.
This is what you wanted, she thought. You wanted to matter.
She had not wanted Bryn to die. She had not wanted to sit in a hospital waiting room after Bryn’s diagnosis and feel completely powerless. That helplessness had sunk claws into her and never fully let go.
Seeing the hidden cylinder, connecting the details, getting out, telling Hank, that had been the opposite of helpless. It had been focused; clear. It had mattered.
It just did not feel heroic from this side.
She went back to the bed, picked up her pencil again with fingers that trembled a little less.
On a fresh page, she sketched the rectangle of the Red Dragons’ pit; the open frame; the small cylinder in a gloved hand. She drew Einstein as a shadow at the edge, his face half-turned away. Then she added a tiny figure at the far margin; herself, sketchbook clutched to her chest; nothing more than an outline.
Underneath, in small letters, she wrote: Caught.
Her phone buzzed again.
Mac just thanked whoever tipped him, Hank texted. I told him I’d pass it along. So consider yourself officially appreciated by the safety gods.
A laugh bubbled out of her, surprised and wet.
Safety gods, she wrote. That sounds like a terrifying pantheon.
They’re cranky but fair, he answered.
The commentators announced that qualifying would be pushed back to account for “ongoing discussions with team representatives.” The graphic at the bottom of the screen was updated with a new start time and a little note about schedule adjustments.
So you’re still racing, she typed. After all that.
Yes, he sent. Tech did their job. Bad variable is out of the equation. Honestly, the safest place for me is on a bike I trust, doing the thing I know how to do. Knowing you’re upstairs and not walking past Einstein helps.
His honesty wrapped around her like a blanket.
