Page 45 of False Start

At 6:05, only the stragglers remained in the parking lot. Trent stood by the Cougar, and I counted only four other rally teams preparing to leave. He leaned on the roof of the car, straightening as I approached. He held his phone in his hand and had a frown on his face.

He caught sight of me and shook off the frown, plastering on a smile. “Good morning!”

“Good morning.” I narrowed my eyes, trying to read his expression. “Everything good?”

“Yeah.” He tapped the phone through his jeans but reached for his back pocket, pulling out the guidebook. “Totally fine. I mapped out the route last night.”

I’d fallen asleep nearly immediately, awoken only by the couple in the room next to me amid a massive fight an hour later. “Really? We went to bed awfully late.”

“Yeah, but I had to clean up our posts, respond to comments, and check our hashtags. I figured I could spend another hour mapping out the best route for today.”

I nodded, suppressing how impressed I was that he stayed up to plan for us. “How are we doing? Points-wise?”

Trent might have been dead set on placing, but I aimed for finishing. Preferably with our car intact, though after Trent’s stint as driver, that seemed like an ambitious ask. Still, he’d opened up to me the night before about the Phoenix incident, and if he was doing all the legwork of finding the route, I could at least act invested.

“Not bad,” he mumbled, opening the trunk.

I fitted my bag beside his. “But not great?”

“Barely in the top half,” he admitted. “I have a plan for that, though.”

I studied his face. “Should I be scared?”

He shook his head with a Cheshire-cat looking grin. “There are bonus points. Lots of them.”

Papers fluttered in the dimly lit parking lot as he flipped to the end of the route book and handed it to me. I squinted, tilting the page until I could make out the highlighted portion.

“In 1994, Team Rust in Peace earn five points by finding the biggest yard sculpture.”

I frowned. “Someone forgot to proofread this.”

“No, it’s on purpose.” Trent flipped back two pages, pointing to another highlighted passage.

“In the Prison Break Rally, the most ambitious route decided the winner. Team Shall win for points if they travel through the most states.”

Grabbing the book from his hands, I slipped into the driver’s seat, fumbling for the overhead light. Trent slid into the passenger seat, watching my face as I reviewed his work.

“They hid points,” I breathed.

Trent’s smile was blinding. “They did.”

“And if we get them all?” On the back page, Trent had written each hidden set of points in his tiny, neat script, and a box to check when completed.

I counted them up, comparing them with the points we earned on the first day.

“We could get top three if no one else finds them.” His fingertips slid over mine as he took the book back, flipping to the Day Two itinerary. “But, I think, if we’re quick, we can finish the mountain leg early and knock out a couple stops on the flatland leg before it’s time to check in.”

My heartbeat quickened. “I don’t actually care about winning.”

“Sure,” Trent agreed. “But we could.”

“We came all this way.”

“For your dad.”

“Alright,” I snorted. “For my dad. But some of these look pretty tough.”

Sure, we could probably search for an outdoor store with giant lawn sculptures or take a picture darting into an adjacent state, but half of them looked quite a bit stickier. Get a bartender to give you the shirt off their back. Sing Tubthumping by Chumbawamba at a karaoke bar. Perform a five-minute set at a comedy club. My stomach churned with anxiety at the thought.

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