Page 9 of Dirty Air
“Mode one for straights,” he grunts as the Sobber immediately catches up to him.
“Understood.Point five behind, three point four ahead. Your lap time is faster than both.”
Only a quarter of the race down and he passes the other Andes, moving up to twelfth place.
“Beautifully done.”
Fritz lets out a shaky exhale.It’s just normal radio communication, keep it professional.
“Gap to William, four point two. You have clearance to fight—keep it clean.”
Points are just within reach and it spurs Fritz forward. He’s finally fighting in the midfield—something he wished for all oflast year. Grasping at points instead of competing to be anything but last.
This is racing.Actualracing.
“Box this lap, we’re retiring the car.”
“WHAT?!” Fritz had practiced tampering his explosions on the radio, but the exclamation is punched out of him.
His tires aren’t overheating, he isn’t reading anything dangerous on the dash. He doesn’t even sense any shaking or porpoising. There’s no reason to retire the car except to sucker-punch him when he's finally happy.
“We’ll discuss it later.”
Fritz knows what that means. It’s code for ‘shut up and do what you’re told.’
He should leave it at that—be a good boy and retire the car—but from where he’s sitting, everything’s fine. Not just fine, powerful. “And if I refuse?”
Red Boar won’t like that message, but they’ll like a result in the points. Fritz is willing to take a chance.
There’s a poignant silence as he waits for a reply.
“If the car explodes, we will be out both a car and a driver.” Oh, Henry sounds pissed.“For your own safety, I need you to box now.”
Fritz almost flies past the pit entrance, but he makes a late decision to yank the car over. He’ll probably earn a penalty for the next race, but he can’t care about that right now.
He parks the car and smacks the wheel several times before screaming into his helmet. The car felt good. It finally feltgood.
The team wheels him back into the garage. They also look disappointed, so at least everyone’s sharing the failure.
Fritz doesn't want to leave yet. Instead, he tries to run through every moment of his too-short race while it’s still fresh.
When he’s finally ready to face the world, he emerges from the car, returns the steering wheel, and sighs.
A strong hand pats his back. “We’ll get ‘em next weekend.”
Another at his shoulder. “Just tough luck.”
Fritz pulls off his helmet and balaclava. “The car felt so strong.”
“You did amazing. Up five places with a nuclear engine. Really, it’s commendable stuff.”
But Fritz catches the broadcasting screen in the garage. His name is at the bottom. He’s in last place. Again.
His dad is somewhere in the garage, but Fritz isn’t ready to face him yet. He already knows what he’ll say. Hoping for some answers, Fritz crosses over to the pit wall.
The roar of the crowd rises and falls in waves as cars race past the bleachers. It’s beautiful, really, even if Fritz wishes he wasn’t in a position to hear it.
Henry doesn’t see him coming. He’s rewatching the race, jotting down notes in his little notebook. Rewind, note, play, look at numbers, pause, note.
