Trackside

Breathe

Fatal crashes are supposed to be a thing of the past. It's not.

___

Breathe. Just breathe, Lightning.

It's hard to do when the weight of someone's life is sitting on you, squashing you into the pavement you share -

The pavement you shared.

He's not on the track anymore. No one is. There are shards of metal and spilled oil all over it, singe marks around the edges. The fire is out, finally, but the smoke is still lingering in the air, drifting up through the murmuring race fans.

Lightning forces himself to look up, toward the scene. They're still cleaning everything up, emergency lights flashing and security holding a firm perimeter. They're trying to keep everyone from seeing it, but there are thousands of prying eyes from all angles. There's no secret here.

He's not the only car that can't breathe.

It happened so fast. They were single file going down the back stretch, riding in the draft. Bobby saw a chance to side draft his way to the front. But drafts can be slippery. A stray wobble can change everything. Lightning had never heard Bobby make the sort of sound he made before hitting the wall. It wasn't a typical "Woo-whee!" or even a playful evil laugh. It was terror, surprise, cursing, all wrapped up into one.

Then it was over.

Wrecks all sound the same. Caution flags fly as they always do. Clean up crews do their job, and the infield care center gets a new visitor.

Bobby never made it to the clinic.

The red flag came before the field could finish their first caution lap. Instinctively, they came down pit road to wait. Was it really that bad?

Two pit boxes in front of Lightning, Cal is crying. His team surrounds him, some bowed in respect, some sniffling. Even the King is off of his stand and parked next to his nephew. He looks empty and cold. Helpless. Tired.

There's empty space between the two teams where their friend should be. He'll never be there again. The team is missing. They've been called to the care clinic. No one knows why.

Suddenly the Rusteze racer manages to suck in a deep breath. The oxygen burns his throat. The official announcement echoes over the radiowaves for each team. Seconds later, it's announced to the fans. There's wailing, there's screaming. There's silence.

The Piston Cup officials made a mistake. Announcements like that shouldn't be made at a populated racetrack. It's something that should be done later, after the race is dismissed, as proper procedure states. But, Lightning supposed, what was obvious was obvious.

Cal's lost all control trying to contain himself. Lightning wishes he could do the same. Maybe it's the shock, maybe it's disbelief. Bobby is very much not with them anymore. He's gone. It's time to mourn. Why does Lightning feel so paralyzed?

Lightning takes in another sharp breath. He's unaware that he's crying, if that's what you'd call it. It hurts. Emotions and physicality are linked, and he's testing the strength of that bond. It's stretched so tight it's numb. It's numb but Chrysler it's on fire. Is it about to break?

He's just trying to breathe.