In the days after the fire, the rhythm that once defined his life became a hollow echo. Airports, haulers, pre-race meetings—everything moved, but nothing felt like it mattered. The man who used to stand on pit road, sunburned and stubbornly proud, was now only visible in flashes: in the way he tightened his gloves, in the way he scanned the grandstands for a face that wasn’t there. His father had been the one who believed when no one else did, who spent money he didn’t have, who gambled his own comfort on a dream with four tires and no guarantees.
Now, that belief is both a burden and a lifeline. Rivals have gone quiet, understanding there are crashes no safety barrier can soften. The engines still scream, the laps still count, but each checkered flag feels different. It no longer means victory; it measures how far he’s traveled from the night everything burned, and how much of him is still standing in those flames.
