Once he’s surrounded, Thomas stands, his body small from above. It takes longer than usual for him to climb out of the car, though Julien doesn’t remember ever timing it before. He just knows something's wrong.
Thomas doesn’t wave when he’s out of the car. Doesn’t acknowledge the cameras at all. He keeps his head down ashe’s propped up between medics and nearly carried over to the medical car.
“His suit is wet.” Julien points at the engineers’ screen, tapping it with his short nail. It doesn’t look dark enough to be blood, but sweat doesn’t run like that. It doesn’t pour from a helmet. “Why is his suit wet?”
“It might be vomit,” an engineer says.
“What does that mean?”
“Hopefully just a concussion.” The man leans in and studies the grainy picture. “Probably a pretty bad one if it made a Formation 1 driver vomit.”
Not some nameless Formation 1 driver—that’s Julien’s brother on the screen, covered in his own vomit.
What should he do? How can he help? What even helps a concussion? Ice?!
Julien is yanked back, away from the screen. He has to blink a couple of times before he recognizes Thomas’s performance coach.
“I’m going to the medical center,”Jean-Luc says in harried French.“Do you want to come?”
Julien nods and follows him through the garage, past frozen bodies who continue to stare at the screens. It feels different this time. The atmosphere is darker than the normal frustration of having to fix a broken car.
The medical vehicle is parked in front of the austere building by the time they arrive.
A guard mans the door, keeping a few of the worst kind of reporters back. Luckily, he recognizes Julien and lets him drag Jean-Luc through without a fuss.
The medical center is cramped but clean, and nurses point them down the hallway towards an open door.
Thomas perches on the exam table in his fireproofs. He crinkles the water bottle in his hands as he looks up at themedical posters that decorate the room. His eyes glance over the intruders and he sighs.“Did you bring my phone at least?”
Julien knows better than to fall for his bravado.“Are you alright? Are you injured? What happened?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You had—”Julien can’t place the word for vomit in French, so he gestures at the front of his shirt.
“It was bad, Thomas.”Jean-Luc steps up to the patient and presses the back of his hand against his forehead.“What tests have they given you?”
“The normal ones.”
“Did they see the vomit?”Apparently it’s practically the same word.“Or did you pull down your race suit in the car?”
Instead of replying, Thomas purses his lips.
“What city are you in?”Jean-Luc tries.
“You know I am bad with geography.”
“What country?”
Again, Thomas remains tight-lipped.
He doesn’t know where they are. Not even the country. Austria literally touches Italy—he should know it.
“Jesus fuck,” Julien breathes.
Before they can question him further, Lorenzo enters the room. Compassion looks a lot like irritation on the team principal’s stern face. “Has the doctor said anything?”
Thomas shakes his head and turns away. Surely he hasseena doctor, right? Who else gives the tests?
