Page 56 of Dirty Air
That wakes Henry up. He gathers Fritz into his arms and squeezes, lifting him off the ground. “Iknewit! I knew that seat was yours. I’m so happy for you—you deserve it.”
Fritz laughs and kicks his feet out. “Put me down, I have not signed anything yet!Bitte, bitte, bitte!”
When Henry sets him down, they wheeze, smiling as they stare at each other. This isn’t just Fritz’s victory, it’s Henry’s too. They’re in this together—they accomplished this together.
I think we should stop what we’re doing.
And then the moment is gone. For a split second, Fritz’s heart hurts, but he swallows and looks somewhere over Henry’s shoulder.
He’s a professional. Strictly professional.
Fritz overtakes Thomas at the start, but the Ferraro is ahead of him again by the first straight. Still, even fifteen laps in, Fritz keeps up with him. He’s hanging around two seconds behind, in the dirty air, just waiting for any mistake that will allow him to steal fifth again.
A Mercenary has caught up to them, but Fritz is good enough to juggle both his defensive strategy and offense.
“Defend your inside at turn four,” Henry’s voice crackles in his ear.
There’s a hard jolt, and just a split second where Fritz can’t see the road anymore, before his car slams into a barrier.
“Repeat… … okay?”
“Yeah, I am fine,” Fritz answers. He definitely blacked out for a moment—he can tell by the piercing migraine. He also wants to vomit, which can’t be good.
“Fritz, please… need… you’re okay…”
“I am okay, I am just dizzy,” Fritz says louder, forcing the mic button down again. His eyes finally adjust enough to notice that his steering wheel is cracked all the way down the middle. The light flickers quickly, but the screen is unreadable.
“Fuck.” He tries pressing the button harder. “I am okay, I am okay,” he repeats, trying to get something through so his family doesn’t think he’s dead. “I am okay.”
Everything is dark and he feels gravity too strong in his face. He must be upside down. Not completely—he’s leaning a little more to his left—but enough to be uncomfortable.
There are people outside the car. They’re muffled like he’s been buried.
“If… hear … medi… way… wait… car…”
Of course he’ll wait in the car. There’s not much else he can do, to be honest. His helmet is strong, but his head’s already been injured enough without the weight his body dropping on it.
The hiss of fire extinguishers is always terrifying, but they quiet quickly, which is a relief.
“Are you alright?” someone calls.
“Yes!” Fritz answers as loud as he can. “Please tell my team I am okay, my mic is broken!”
“We’re going to flip the car back over.”
Even with the warning, when the car starts rocking, Fritz squawks in surprise. He braces himself but hisses when a pain in his left foot screams back at him.
Fuck.
They say you know when you’ve broken a bone. Well, Fritz knows—he’s broken a bone.
He’s temporarily blinded by daylight as the car rocks further. Once the car is settled back upright, the blood drains away from his face and back into the rest of his body.
The marshals rush to check on him while someone sprays the front of the car with the extinguisher again.
“I broke something in my foot,” Fritz shouts through the padding of his helmet. He passes his broken steering wheel to the first person he sees, and points to the basic area where his foot is.
“Can you stand up?”
