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Jack’s Australian accent comes through loud and clear through the in-helmet headset. We’re well into this practice session, and I’m slaying every lap.
“Fantastic. Is absolutely fantastic. None of the previous issues,” I respond. “Even in this drizzle, it’s performing a hundred and ten percent.”
I’ve still got several curves to go, and the car feels so incredible, primed for speed, that I glance down at my multifunctional steering wheel and decide to kick it up a notch.
“Good deal. Box now, mate.”
“Will do.” That’s the team radio phrase for “return to the pits.” Box is short forBoxenstopp, a German word that means pit stop. Every team has its own lingo, but some terms, likebox, are used across the sport.
I crest the straight, brake hard, and clip the apex of turn five, the tightest corner on the track.
The car feels good, and I realize I can keep this up for a little longer.
“I’m going to push to pass, Jack. One more lap.”
“How’s the engine performing?”
“I’ll let you know when I get back.” But the new power component seems to be working better than the last one.
Push to pass was a feature introduced to the cars some years ago. It awards drivers an extra thirty horsepower for five seconds to use when overtaking a competitor. At the moment, there are no competitors and I’m only running some free practice laps. Still, I like to test these things before quali.
On the approach to turn six I hit the power again, feel the rear end begin to slide, but the car grabs and sticks. I crest the small hill, brake for seven, and slam it into the long straight.
I’m grinning. In the cockpit, my body is held by a soft, adjustable carbon fiber seat. The belts will keep me secure in the event of a crash. My helmet stretches over my head and locks neatly into place. Through the clear visor, I watch the scenery whiz by as though I’m in a wild movie.
If I concentrate, I can feel the tires gripping the road, feel my heart lifting off the ground and flying through the sky. I need to sometime describe this to Lily.
The asphalt is smooth and constant. The snarl of the engine changes pitch slightly as I hit a slight bump, like a guitar chord moving from a low sound to a higher one.
“Max, what did you hit?” Jack’s concerned tone comes through my headset right as I lose control for a fraction of a second. But a fraction is all it takes with such a powerful car, and now I’m swearing and swerving into the grass.
“Control it, Max, control it! You’ve lost part of your front wing.”
I don’t have time to respond to Jack because my front is now airborne, the car screaming on its back wheels.
In the blink of an eye, my right front tire hits a concrete barrier. The entire car tilts precariously to the left, and out of my peripheral vision I see the track whizzing past. Then I hit the concrete wall again, almost full-on. Somehow I’m still gripping the steering wheel like it’s a life preserver, and maybe it is.
There’s no stopping now, no way to correct. All I can do is try to survive.
The entire right side of my car is sheared away, breaking into thousands of pieces of fiberglass and rubber. A searing, intense pain grips my right shoulder. The force of the impact rips two wheels off and now the entire car’s skidding along the asphalt, on the driver’s side, inches from my head.
I don’t have it in me to be scared, no time to scream. The last thing I see is the mostly empty grandstand, and the gray, drizzly sky. I think I’m upside down. Or dreaming. Did I hit my head? Maybe I’m dead. I don’t know what’s happening. I’m losing feeling in my arms, and then my chest, lower back, and legs.
Everything goes black, then as suddenly as I lose consciousness, it’s back.
I feel myself being yanked sideways, lifted out of the cockpit, and set onto a grassy patch adjacent to the track.
Jack’s on the team radio, yelling. “Get the ambulance out there, now!”
I hear a frantic voice in an accent I can’t identify. Someone else is screaming but I’m not understanding the words. I don’t know if it’s from the team radio or from the world around me, but either way, I don’t seem to be able to answer.
I’m staring at the tattered remains of my car, and wondering when, or if, I’ll see my parents. Or Lucas. Or if I’ll ever hold Lily in my arms again.
Chapter Forty-Two
LILY
Because I’ve managed to make it an hour without checking the tabloid websites, I feel I deserve a medal.
