Sector One
Travis
1
After
No one thinks to tell me about the crash, not until an hour after it’s happened. Even then, no one goes out of their way to tell me directly. Why would they? No one knows we’re friends, let alone... whatever we are.
I’m caught by a reporter on my way out of a press conference, a bright red microphone pushed into my face.
“Got a second, mate? Great.”
Obediently, I stop walking and plaster on a look of interest. If it were anyone else, I might have made an excuse and kept on walking, but James Riley is a retired F1 driver, one of the greats from the eighties.
“Well done out there today, Travis,” he says, in his bright English accent. “P4, you must be pleased with that.”
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing down the uncomfortable prickle of nerves that always surfaces when I have to talk on camera. “We had a few issues in practice yesterday, but yeah, a bit better today.”
“Talk to us about that,” James says. “You and Matty—” He moves aside as a man and woman in Crosswire Racing gear steppast us. “You and Matty both had some problems out there yesterday—”
“—see the replay?” the woman asks. “Nichols’ car—”
At the sound of his name, my entire body goes cold, like someone’s doused me in ice water. Her tone is tight and horrified, as if something awful has happened. I turn toward them, panic spiking my pulse, but James’ question drowns out most of the man’s response. I only catch three words.
“—killed on scene.”
“—if the weather holds out,” James finishes. He’s holding his mic expectantly, waiting for my response, but all I can hear is—all I can think is—
Killed on scene.
They can’t mean—
He can’t have been—
James is staring at me, a bemused look on his face. I know I need to answer, but I can’t hear anything beyond the rushing in my ears. The man’s words are stuck on repeat. Killed on scene. Killed on scene. Killed on scene.
“Did something happen?” I blurt out, in a thin voice that doesn’t sound like mine. “Did something happen in F2?”
James looks around, his forehead wrinkling. “I don’t know, mate. I’ve been in a meeting all morning, just stepped out two minutes ago.” He glances at his camerawoman, but her face is as blank as his.
“Excuse me.” My words come out harsh and strangled. I push past them, my fingers clumsy as I fumble for my phone. It takes three tries to open the F2 live timing app, and another three to navigate to the updates. I feel sick, literally sick, as it loads, then my brain sort of freezes when I see what’s there.
Nothing.
The last live update was forty-three minutes ago.Martinez gets past Rourke to claim the lead on lap one. #livewithf2 #formula2 #circuitpaulricard.
After that, nothing.
I refresh.
Nothing.
My feet start moving again, carrying me toward the outside. If it were a minor crash, they would’ve posted about it. If they aren’t posting about it—if they aren’t postinganything—
It means dying. It means death.
Killed on scene, the man said.
