“That’s not how this works!”
He laughs.
The ridge climb looms ahead.
“Don’t take it,” I warn.
“It’s faster.”
“You’ll run dry!”
He hesitates only a moment.
Then, surprisingly, he veers left.
The vehicle plunges into the canyon route.
Dust and gravel explode beneath the tires as we dive between jagged rock walls barely wider than the vehicle itself.
“You planned this route,” he realizes.
“Yes.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Focus on driving.”
The canyon floor bucks beneath us as we bounce over uneven terrain. Behind us several competitors stall on the steep ridge climb, engines sputtering.
Bron glances at the fuel gauge.
“Still good.”
“That’s because you’re finally listening.”
He smirks slightly but adjusts his speed with visible care.
By the time the canyon spits us back onto the open flats, several vehicles ahead of us are already sputtering toward empty fuel cells.
Bron keeps the throttle steady.
The finish markers grow larger.
We cross the line with fuel still in reserve.
The scoreboard flashes.
Top third.
Bron exhales.
“Well,” he says quietly. “That worked.”
I lean back against the seat, letting the adrenaline drain slowly from my system.
“That,” I reply, “is what happens when you follow instructions.”
He glances sideways at me.
