Page 5

After a few hours hiding out in the ICU bathroom—one of the staff bathrooms, I learn, after about ten irritated nurses knock

impatiently on the door—my face is presentable enough to emerge. I walk past Jacob’s room, but the doors are closed. I can

see shadows moving inside, and I hover for a minute, trying to work up the nerve to go in. But then a nurse walks by and frowns

at me, and I’m forced to retreat.

The waiting room is still half full. I sink into a seat, only to spot Jacob’s brother, Paul, in the far corner, cell phone

pressed to his ear. I search his face desperately for clues. He’s nodding and talking in a quiet voice, then he cracks a thin

smile and all the breath rushes out of my lungs. He wouldn’t be smiling if Jacob were dead.

A painful lump is forming in my throat. I get up and flee into the stairwell before Paul can spot me.

Compared to the pristine waiting room, the stairwell is muggy and dingy but mercifully quiet. I dig my phone out of my pocket

and my breath hitches at the sight of the background picture. It’s from the top of a hike on the Isle of Harris, in Scotland.

Jacob set it as my background photo nearly a year ago.

I squint at the time. Ten forty-seven p.m. I have fifteen missed calls and ten texts.

I ignore all of them, except the ones from my teammate, Matty.

He’s been with Harper for three years already, with seventeen podiums and six wins under his belt, and he’s something of a media darling (his words, not mine).

F1 teammates aren’t really teammates at all—your teammate is the only one on the grid in the same car as you, so they’re your

biggest competition, as well as the only driver your performance can be properly measured against—but Matty’s always been

really friendly to me. He kind of reminds me of Jacob a bit. Always joking, always up for anything.

Yo, did you see the F2 crash? his first text reads. Media canceled for the rest of day. I know you’ll be disappointed lol.

Two hours later, there’s another text. Shit, did you hear about Parrot?

My blood runs cold. I open up Google and type in “Parrot formula 2 crash.” The first result that comes up confirms my worst

fears. “Formula 2 Driver Ellis Parrot Dies After Tragic Crash,” reads the first headline. I open the article and learn that

Parrot died in hospital— this hospital—at eight thirty p.m. The article goes on to state that drivers McDougall and Theriot were released with minor injuries,

while Jacob Nichols and Antony Costa remain in critical condition.

I clutch my phone so hard, I think I might break it.

Ellis Parrot died .

Just like Jacob might die.

The door swings open behind me and a young doctor in green scrubs and a long white coat emerges, phone and coffee in hand.

“Pardon,” she says in French, spotting me on the steps. Then she does a double take. For a moment, I think she’s recognized me, but instead her face softens and she says gently, “Pardonnez-moi... est-ce que ca va?”

I open my mouth to lie, but instead I blurt out, “Do you know how Jacob Nichols is?”

“Jacob Nichols?” she repeats.

“Room 924,” I say, flushing. “He was in a car accident?”

“Ah.” She nods. “The racing car driver. Oui.” A drop of suspicion creeps into her eyes. “You are—media?”

“No, I—” I shake my head. “He’s just... a friend. I don’t want to disturb his family.”

“We are not supposed to give information, only to family,” she says. The painful lump in my throat grows a little bigger.

I swallow it down and force a nod.

“Right. Sorry.”

I wait for her to leave, but instead she gives a little sigh. A moment later, she sits down beside me on the steps.

“It is, how you say, touch and go,” she says quietly. “He has suffered injury to—” She pats her stomach. “Organs inside. La

rate. Ah, comment dire en anglais?” She rubs her forehead and then opens up some French search engine on her phone and types

into it. “Ah! Ici. Spleen. La rate. And liver. You know?”

I nod a little uncertainly.

“He has done surgery to stop the bleeding,” she continues, “but... la tension artérielle—blood pressure—is low. He is taken

back to surgery soon.”

“He’s had surgery?” A hollow feeling spreads through my chest. “He’s going for more surgery?”

She nods. “I am sorry.”

“No, thank you,” I say. “Thank you for telling me.”

Her phone buzzes in her hand. She ignores it, and studies my face a moment more. “You are... good friends?”

The beat of silence is entirely too telling. She knows—or at least, suspects. The first person in the entire world to know. Maybe I should be freaking out, but in light of everything else, I can’t bring myself to care. And something in the girl’s steady gaze tells me our secret is safe.

“I am working all this week,” she says. “I give you information when I can, yes?”

I manage a tiny smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

She nods again and continues on down the stairs. My phone buzzes with a text from one of Harper’s press people.

Race still on for tomorrow, will send updated press schedule shortly.

The race. Jesus. I’d completely and totally forgotten about it. Qualifying seems like it happened a hundred years ago.

I scroll through all the texts I’ve missed, mostly notifications from the team about canceled press events. With an F2 driver

dead, no one will be doing interviews. But they won’t cancel the F1 race. There’s too much money on the line. Which means

tomorrow morning, I’ll be expected to be in my car, driving around the same track where Jacob’s car was... what?

Gritting my teeth, I open up Google again on my phone and slowly type in “Formula 2 crash circuit paul ricard video.” A YouTube

clip pops up. The thumbnail looks a little grainy, like it was shot on someone’s phone, but it was posted a few hours ago

and has sixty-seven thousand views. It must be the real thing.

Taking a breath, I click play. It takes a few minutes to load, and every second steals another heartbeat out of my chest.

The video was filmed by a fan in the stands.

It opens on a section of empty track, with motors roaring in the distance.

A car zooms through the frame, then five more cars zip past in rapid succession.

It’s too quick to tell which car is which.

They must be going one-fifty, maybe faster.

The camera shifts to the left and suddenly it’s all smoke and flying cars.

There’s a collective cry from the crowd, and the video jars.

Someone nearby says, “Oh my god!” and then the camera swings back to face the big screen nearby.

There’s a replay showing—they always replay crashes, because usually there aren’t any injuries—and the track cameras have

picked up a perfect shot. Parrot is coming out of the corner when his front left tire locks. His car swerves erratically at

the exact moment that Costa tries to pass Jacob on the outside of the corner. Wheel to wheel, the two cars slam into Parrot,

and all three cars shatter and fly. I rewind the video, my breathing quick and shallow as I watch Jacob’s car tumble through

the air, over and over, before skidding upside down into the barrier. Three of the tires have come off of it, and the chassis

is a mess of torn-up carbon fiber.

Touch and go, the doctor said. Seeing that video, I’m surprised Jacob survived this long.

I feel strangely numb all of a sudden, strangely distant from it all. I turn the video off and climb up one more flight of

stairs, settling myself on the top floor, just outside the door to the roof. I can’t imagine anyone will come up here. And

there’s no way in hell I’m leaving.

Instead, I open up my text messages and find Jacob’s name. I scroll back, all the way to the very first text he sent me, almost

a year ago to the day.