"He's gotta grow up like any other kid. We can't keep that from him, you know that. You can't let your career take priority here."

Strip looked down at the floor and frowned. He racked his mind for any sort of counterargument that would convince Lynda otherwise. The problem was that she was right. He knew that she was right, and he knew that he agreed with her. Why was he trying to prove himself otherwise?

"Look at it like this," Lynda continued, voice soft from exhaustion. The conversation-turned-argument had worn them both out. "He doesn't start school until September. We don't have to change anythin' until then. That's most of the season. We have time to figure it out."

"I know, I know," he sighed. "It's not that – I'm not puttin' racin' over his needs, Lyn. I just feel like I need to keep an eye on him."

"I'm capable of watchin' him, too, y'know."

"Yeah, but –"

"You don't need me there at the track every week, either."

Strip looked up at his wife. The thought of her being forced to stay home and care for Cal as the kid began school bothered him. He didn't know why. He couldn't place it. It wasn't the fact that they'd be separated for longer than he'd like. It wasn't the inconvenience of the situation. Inconvenience had long been forgotten.

"I think it's more of a want than a need," he admitted, forcing himself to relax. "I guess I just don't like bein' faced with a problem I can't figure out."

Lynda smiled at his honesty. How many years had they been together? All those years and she had attended nearly every race with him, been there for every win, every loss, every wreck.

"Well, maybe the first thing is to stop lookin' at it like it's a problem," she offered, looking up at the clock on the wall.

Strip followed her gaze and nodded. It was almost seven. The hauler was due to arrive at any moment to take him to Daytona. Florida International Speedway awaited Team Dinoco, promising to dispel any and all February chills with its beachside warmth.

He wasn't looking forward to it.

"Yeah, you're right," he conceded. "It's not a problem. Just a change."

He nosed open the door to Cal's bedroom. The bright blue walls seemed exceptionally optimistic as the fading sunset illuminated them through the unshuttered window. All Cal's belongings were tidily put away, a sight Strip found odd. Kids' rooms weren't supposed to be clean, were they? A single suitcase laid packed in the middle of the floor.

Cal lay on his perfectly made bed as though he had been sent to his room to await punishment. The young car caught his uncle's gaze before quickly looking away, out the window. Strip looked at him in confusion.

"Hey, buddy, is everythin' alright?" he asked.

Cal refused to make eye contact as his uncle rolled closer. His eyelids drooped. He'd been crying.

"Cal?" Strip prodded again.

Cal sniffed. "Are you and Aunt Lyn done fighting now?"

"What?"

"You were yelling at each other."

Strip blinked. It hadn't occurred to him that Cal may have heard their conversation. Fighting? Is that what he thought?

"It's not what you think, kiddo," he explained in a quiet voice. "We were just tryin' to figure somethin' out. Sometimes you gotta argue to figure things out."

"So you still love each other?"

Strip laughed a little bit and reached out to give the smaller car a bump on the fender. "Of course. And don't you ever think differently."

Cal sniffed again and looked up. "Okay."

"Now, I came up here to check on you before I leave. You excited for Florida?"

Cal pointed to his suitcase, a simple carry on with a Dinoco sticker on it that Tex had given him a few weeks ago. A small smile crossed his face.

"Yeah! I've only been to Charlotte. Florida is bigger, right?"

"A lot bigger, kiddo. Remember what I told you? The rules?"

"Always stay close to Aunt Lynda, and don't talk to strangers."

"That's right. You do that, you'll be okay."

Outside, the rumble of a diesel engine faded in. Cal heard it and perked up.

"Gotta go now, Cal. I'll see you down at the track, okay?"

Florida was everything it had ever been. Warm breeze, sunny day, occupied by overwhelming crowds eager to get the season started. It should have been perfect.

The racers made their way to pit row as Strip stayed behind for a moment and had a few last words with his sponsor.

"All I'm asking is that you give this guy a chance," Tex said. "I checked him out, he's fit for the job. You worked well together yesterday. Qualified for that pole like I knew you would."

"I don't doubt your judgement, Tex, I just wish you'd cleared it with me first," Strip responded, looking over at the occupied crew chief stand with obvious distaste. "Racin's different from qualifyin'."

"I know no one's ever gonna replace your brother," Tex empathized in a gentle manner. "I don't want this to be seen as a replacement. Just fillin' a position. We gotta have a complete team."

Strip didn't remember reading that anywhere in the rulebooks, but he didn't argue. This new crew chief wasn't a bad person. In fact, Roger was a kindhearted individual and more than qualified to do the job, Strip gathered that much just by talking with him. Roger Wheeler knew the ins and outs of racing as well as the next guy, but there was something about him Strip didn't necessarily agree with. He was strictly technical, strictly professional. He was there to help the team win the race, and that was the whole of it.

But that wasn't what Strip wanted. He felt his temper rise as he departed the Dinoco tent enroute to the pits to line up for the starting ceremonies. He saw that bright blue truck on top of the pit stand and for the first time in several weeks, the freshly healed scar of his brother's loss reopened into a raw wound. He thought he'd been coping well, learning to move on, but he wasn't ready to race without his lifelong best friend. He didn't know if he'd ever be.

None of the other racers said anything to him as he drove past them to take the pole position. They stared as they prepared themselves, but that was all. They knew what had happened. The whole community knew. Everyone knew and no one said a word. December was in the past. All the condolences the family received over the holidays had but vanished.

Funny how fast the world moves on without you, Strip thought begrudgingly to himself. Moe deserved better than this. He deserved better than this. There was a little kid up in the VIP suites somewhere that deserved better.

Strip didn't look over at his team as he came to a rest behind the pace car. He didn't glance at that stand. That position wasn't meant to be filled, however carefully it had been. It wasn't for sale.

"Ready to roll?" the unfamiliar voice asked over the radio.

Strip scowled as the command for the racers to start their engines echoed through the arena. He started his again with an angry roar and let it idle high. That was all the response he needed.

"When you get out there, just let me know what I can do for you," the voice interrupted again.

Strip took a few deep, steady breaths before replying. He didn't want to talk to this guy.

"Just let me do my job."

Florida International is a name synonymous with wrecks and action. Big wrecks, little wrecks, solo wrecks that were really more like uncontrolled skid competitions through the grassy infield. The Florida 500 had it all.

Despite the tension over the radio, it wasn't anyone's fault on the team. Coming three-wide out of turn four, someone got into someone else who sent yet another into a wall. The pile up was unavoidable for anyone not racing the inside line.

Strip was on the outside, trying to make a pass. A sideways racecar and the outside wall had other plans.

"You alright, King?"

Strip opened his eyes and looked toward the pits as the chaos around him came to a halt. What? What had his crew chief called him? They were supposed to work together and yet they weren't even on personable terms. Moe never used that title.

He wasn't sure what burned worse, his bent axle and crumpled panels, or the aching loss percolating through his soul.

"I'm fine," he mumbled through clenched teeth.

He wasn't.

Cal couldn't have made that noise again if he'd wanted to. It was so sharp, so abrupt it made Lynda jump.

She tore her gaze away from the smoking scene below to assess her nephew. He stared unblinkingly at the commotion on the track, shaking as though he were freezing cold.

"Cal?" she voiced softly. "Cal, hun, are you okay?"

Cal jerked at the sound of her voice and came back to reality. Tears instantly welled up in his eyes as he lifted them to look at her. He was a ticking time bomb of hysterics.

Lynda quickly pulled him aside so that he wouldn't make a scene in front of the other Dinoco VIPs. In the back corner of the suite, she went into immediate crisis mitigation mode.

"Shh, Cal, it's okay," she told him quietly. "Everythin's okay. No reason to cry."

Cal shuddered and fell into silent sobs as he leaned against her side. She reciprocated the gesture in kind and wiped away the tears running down his fender, thankful he wasn't a vocal crier.

"It's okay, baby, it's fine," she soothed him.

Cal looked back toward the window as the announcer started listing off the names of the racers involved in the crash. The echoes of the loudspeakers made it difficult to understand, but he was sure he heard "Weathers" and "out of the race" in the same sentence.

"Crash," Cal said weakly.

"Yeah, that happens sometimes," Lynda told him. "Wreckin' is a part of racin', you know."

"But crashes kill," Cal whispered.

Lynda looked up and glanced around the room to find several of the other patrons watching them in their rearview mirrors. She scowled at them. This was none of their business. What she'd give for a private place all to herself and Cal.

"Not all of 'em do, honey," she explained. "Only the really bad ones. A lot of 'em only end up with someone getting' hurt. Strip's gonna be fine. He's been through this before. Just bad luck is all. You understand?"

Cal sniffled and blinked a few times in rapid succession to clear his vision. He nodded, but his face said otherwise.

Lynda led him back to the window to show him.

"See? They're pulling him out with a tow truck," Lynda pointed out to Cal, who leaned forward to peer over the ledge. "See? He's looking around. He's fine. A little beat up, but he'll be okay."

"They can fix him?"

"Of course. That's what the mechanics and doctors are here for. There's nothing to worry about. He just won't be able to finish the race, that's all."

Cal sank in his suspension as he settled in to watch the cleanup crew in action. His rate of breathing slowed to normal once again.

Lynda sighed in relief. Crisis averted.

"Has anyone ever died at a race?" Cal asked out of the blue.

Lynda could feel the stares of the other cars in the booth as they bore into her. She tried her best to ignore it. In her younger years she wouldn't have hesitated to give them a piece of her mind.

"It's happened before," she answered. "Those are the really bad ones."

"How do you know if it's bad?"

"You just know, Cal. You just know."

He frowned. He didn't understand.

Lynda looked down at him again. She could feel the worry radiating from his pint-sized frame.

"Do you wanna go see him? We can go down there now if you want. We'll probably miss the end of the race but – "

"Yes. Let's go now."

Strip sat on the lift with his eyes closed as the infield mechanics finished installing a new front axle. His aching panels served as a dull reminder of everything that had gone wrong in the last several months. The temptation of letting his mind slip into a state of feeling sorry for himself was far too tempting.

The medics finished up and lowered the lift. One of them administered a moderate pain reliever.

"That'll get you through the rest of the day."

He heard them drive away to leave him in peace for a few moments. It should have been a time of relaxation, but stress always finds a way to ruin such things. He knew Tex or Roger or maybe even both of them would be driving through that door any second to check on him. He didn't feel like talking to either of them – not even Tex.

Not a moment too soon the door swung open. He braced himself.

"Hey."

Strip relaxed in sweet relief. That was the voice he didn't know he wanted to hear. He opened his eyes and glanced to the left.

"Hey, Lyn."

"Roughed you up pretty good this time, didn't they?"

He looked down at his crinkled hood. "I guess."

Lynda nodded and looked down beside her. Cal inched forward, looking at his uncle as though he were scared of what he might find.

"We would've been in here earlier, but they said they needed to finish repairs first. Cal was chompin' at the bit to get in here and see you. Had to keep him occupied."

"Hey, kid," Strip acknowledged his nephew. "What'd you think of Florida?"

Cal drove up to the tattered racecar in order to get a better look.

"It's big," he answered thoughtlessly, taking in the damage. It didn't look comfortable. "You okay?"

Strip smiled down at him. "I'm fine, Cal. This is just part of it."

"Mmm," Cal seemed to contemplate it.

"Just wasn't your day, was it?" Lynda asked.

"No," he answered dejectedly. "I think most of that's on me, though."

"Don't like the new guy?"

"He's fine, he's not a bad car. I just wasn't ready for someone new."

Lynda nodded. She expected as much. It wasn't the wreck that hurt.

"I made you something," Cal spoke up.

Strip looked down at his side. Cal was pulling something out of his travel pack where he kept his toys and coloring materials for time away from home.

Lynda smiled. When the nurse at the clinic entrance offered Cal some pieces of paper and crayons to keep busy with, she hadn't expected anything out of the ordinary to come from Cal's toddler-appropriate drawing skills. And perhaps from an artistic standpoint, it wasn't special, but to them, it was a drastic improvement, something truly valuable.

"Whatcha got there?" Strip asked.

"I drew this for you," Cal said, holding a piece of paper up. "It's our family."

Strip didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't what Cal showed him. It was simple, just the three of them at what appeared to be a race track – probably Florida International, judging from the blue blob that consumed the top half of the paper.

What stood out wasn't Cal's artistic talent or lack thereof, but the realization that this was the first picture he'd drawn since his parents' death that didn't include them or wasn't exclusively for them.

It's our family.

"That's great, Cal," Strip whispered, suddenly overcome with emotion. "You did a good job with this."

He blamed it on the pain medications. He couldn't be having a breakdown at a racetrack of all places. He swallowed the rising lump in his throat as Cal leaned against his side.

"I love you, Uncle Strip," Cal said quietly. "Hope you feel better soon."

Strip glanced over at Lynda to find she was fighting back tears as well. All three of them were driving on a knife's edge of uncontrollable, conflicting feelings.

And not a one of them cared to fight it.

"Love you too, kiddo."