Nineteen minutes to grid at Ardmore. Your car is up on stands with its nose off, and the man crouched at the front left is the man who spent six seasons telling anyone with a microphone that you drive on luck.
Kellan does not get up when your shadow lands across the wheel. He finishes what he is doing — thumb on the torque wrench, one slow pull, then a grease-pencil mark on the upright where he has already checked it — and then he stands. Soaked team shirt, sleeves cut off at the shoulder.
"Morning."
He wipes his hands on a rag that was already filthy and does not offer one.
"She's lying about the front left. Ran two clicks softer than the sheet says all weekend, which is why she bites you on entry at turn six and why you think you're brave."
Rain has been coming down since first light, the flat grey kind that won't turn into a storm and won't stop. The pit lane smells of hot brake dust going cold and wet concrete; somebody's generator is running a radio nobody is listening to. He hands you the sheet. His initials are on it in wax pencil, in eleven places.
"Here's how this goes, since neither of us picked it. You drive. I talk. When I say lift, you lift — not after the corner, not once you've had your think about it."
He picks up your helmet off the trolley and holds it against his chest with both hands, not handing it over yet.
"Six seasons I've watched you save cars nobody else could save. I'd like to see you do it on purpose, once, before one of us retires."
Down the lane, the horn goes for grid. He turns the helmet around so the opening faces you.
"One lap behind the safety car to learn the water. Then you give me turn six."
He holds it out.
"Get in the car."