Free Avoidable Contact by Tammy Kaehler

handed my phone to Holly and spent half an hour watching Colby’s view out the windscreen via the in-car camera feed.
    On my return from a run to the port-a-potty, my father, James Hightower Reilly III, was waiting for me at the entrance to our team tent. Our relationship was still tentative. It wasn’t something I wanted to deal with on race day.
    Raised by my maternal grandparents after my mother died within days of my birth, I’d only met my father three years ago. We’d only become friendly in the last year. He was the twenty-years-older male version of me: short and slight, with black hair, blue eyes, and a pointy chin. But while my uniform was a firesuit, his was a suit and tie.
    I spoke before my father could. “I’m in the stop window. I’ve got to get ready.”
    â€œI know. I heard about Stuart, and I wanted to see how you were doing.” As the chairman and CEO of Frame Savings, James represented a major sponsor of the new United SportsCar Championship, and as such, he was up and down pit lane, in and out of team tents all race long.
    He followed me to the back corner of the Sandham Swift tent, opposite the food tables, where Holly waited next to some open, plastic shelving. Mike and I usually had small lockers in one of the pit carts, but for this race, all drivers used temporary shelves for our gear, partly because Sandham Swift was fielding a dozen drivers, up from its regular four. In addition, the extra equipment required to service three Corvettes for twenty-four hours straight meant our crew needed a lot more tools and car parts on hand. Those occupied all the locker space in all three carts.
    I took the bottle of water Holly had waiting for me and slugged down half of it in one go. I could lose as many as five pounds in sweat during a single stint. Overhydration was vital before I got in the car.
    My father studied my face. “How are you handling Stuart’s situation, Kate?”
    The concern in his eyes and voice made me feel like weeping for the first time in a couple hours. “Fine. I have to think about the car.” I sounded curt, bordering on rude, but I couldn’t afford to get emotional, not with my shift in the car coming up. I drank the rest of the water and set the empty bottle on my shelf, then inserted my earplugs and put tape over my ears to hold them in.
    â€œIf there’s anything I can do, please tell me,” James said.
    I nodded at him, before pulling on my fire-retardant balaclava and tucking it into the neck of my firesuit. Despite my own statement, all I could think about was Stuart as I zipped up my firesuit and pressed the Velcro collar closed.
    Holly took my head and neck system, or HANS, from me and slid it onto my shoulders. I paused with my helmet above my head. “James, you could find out what’s going on with Stuart. And if anyone knows why. Tell Holly. Please.”
    â€œI’ll find out whatever I can.” He wished me well and left the tent.
    I turned to Holly as I fastened my chinstrap. “Don’t tell me anything about Stuart while I’m out there.”
    She knew what I meant. “Don’t think about it. It’s all going to be okay.”
    Five minutes later, Holly interrupted my visualizations of the driver-change and the track by pointing to the monitors. The track feed showed a prototype high-centered on curbing at the outside of Turn 5. If the prototype couldn’t get off the curb, Race Control would throw a yellow flag to retrieve him.
    As I grabbed my gloves, the double-yellow flew in the twilight, bringing out a full-course caution. I hurried across the pit space to Jack for last-minute instructions. Three steps up the side of the command center, and I was eye-to-eye with him.
    Jack raised his eyebrows. “You ready to drive?”
    â€œReady to do my job.”
    He looked back at the array of monitors above his head. “Not sure if it’s going to really rain or