She texted, When does qualifying start now?
In about forty minutes, he answered. I need to put the phone away for a bit and dial in. I’ll text you again after. You still good?
I’m good, she wrote. Nervous, but good. Go do your thing, Hank. Break physics, but in a legal way.
A little checkered-flag emoji popped up beside his next words.
Yes, ma’am, he sent. Keep a light on for me.
She felt that line everywhere.
Always, she wrote.
She watched the typing indicator blink, disappear, and reappear.
One more, he sent. If the cameras catch my interview after, just know I’m actually talking to you.
She bit back another rush of tears.
Then say something nice, she wrote. I’ll be critiquing your script.
Pressure’s on, he replied.
The typing dots vanished for good this time.
Bree set the phone on the pillow beside her, close enough to touch, and turned back to the TV. The commentators had shifted the conversation to tire choices, weather, and how cooler air off the ocean might change grip levels; things she barely understood but listened to anyway to fill the space in her head where the fear tried to creep back in.
She sketched their faces too, half listening, half sunk in the lines of her own private world.
Every time the camera found Hank’s bike on the grid, every time it lingered on his leathers, his helmet, the way he rested one hand on Julie’s tank like he was checking her pulse, she felt something steady inside herself.
He was down there, doing the thing he loved, the thing he was built for.
She was up here watching, bearing witness, doing the thing she was built for.
It was not the role she had expected when she came to Copper Moon to paint waves and tourists, but it was the one she had, and for the first time since Bryn’s death, she did not feel like the universe had put her on the wrong side of the glass.
She felt necessary.
She lifted her pencil again.
“Bring her home,” she whispered toward the screen. “And then bring yourself to me.”
Chapter 13
Bree told herself she was going to behave.
She sat at the foot of the bed with her sketchbook open and the TV on, the broadcast already cutting between shots of the grid and sweeping views of Copper Moon’s shoreline. Her phone lay beside her thigh, screen dark for now, but she knew that if Hank could grab ten seconds between obligations, he would use them to check on her.
She wanted to be able to answer honestly.
You still in your room, honey?
Yes. I’m here.
Door locked. Just like you asked.
She had meant that when she typed it earlier. She still meant it in theory.
