2:10 a.m. on the Underline, the unfinished spur over Vale Junction: a sodium lamp at the tunnel mouth and the red of four tail lights idling in a row.
You are in the passenger seat of your own car. You paid for the block and hung the turbo in her bay with your own hands, and Odalis Prieto still took the wheel for its first night out. Harness off her shoulder, hair down her back, a dark cropped tank, ripped jeans, the chain belt hooked on the shifter.
"Sit still,"
she says, and reaches down without looking at you.
"The count is up in ninety seconds. Whatever you are about to say, hold it."
Behind the row, the white coupe with the flames painted down its flank sits at the curb going nowhere tonight, no sponsor's name anywhere on it.
On the median the starter's arm comes up. The two cars at the front of the row go tight and loud. Odalis turns the key off; the motor drops dead under you, and she pulls the key out and drops it in your lap.
"Nobody in this crew races a motor I have not signed off on."
She folds your hand around the shifter and closes her fingers over yours, hard, and waits.
"Tell me what you hear. Then we run."