Free Over the Wall by Chris Fabry

the different teams, the excitement level rising this day before the race. Wish you were here, Dad , he thought.
    Dale entered the track and ran through the back turns, then took the green flag. His brakes lit as he entered the first turn, following the groove of thetrack. His front end slipped a little as the car hit the straightaway.
    The crew chief keyed his microphone. “That’s gonna cost you—let’s get a good second lap.”
    “Hit some loose stuff on turn two,” Dale said. “Here we go.”
    “Engine sounds good,” Tim said to Scotty, lifting one headphone. “Really tight.”
    Scotty nodded.
    When Dale crossed the start/finish line the first time, his time was 29.024. Not bad, but if he wanted to be close to the front at the start, he’d have to do better.
    Tim stood as Dale passed the second time. He held it in turn two, and the engine roared down the backstretch. He shot out of turn four and screamed toward the checkered flag. Tim looked up to the scoring pylon to see Dale’s car, #14, in first place with a time of 27.859 at a speed of 193.833 mph.
    “Woo-hoo!” T.J. yelled. “You’ve got the pole right now, Dale. Good work.”
    As it turned out, Dale wound up in the ninth position with the top car qualifying at just over 27 seconds. Still, the crew seemed pleased, and the talk was positive near the hauler. Scotty had a meeting and left Tim there. “Just stay out of their way.”
    A few minutes later, his throat parched and the temperature at nearly 90, Tim opened the cooler just outside the hauler and pushed the ice off some soft drinks. He grabbed one and unscrewed the top, then took a hot dog off the grill. Everybody else had already eaten, so Tim figured it would be okay.
    As Tim took a bite of the bun, someone with a scratchy voice said, “What do you think you’re doing?” Tim turned to see Mac, his grayish brown hair slicked back. He looked like an opossum that had just climbed out of a trash can after a downpour. His face was wrinkled and came to a point in a mouth that looked as sharp as a toothpick. And he held one between his front teeth as he spoke. His eyes were gray and lifeless, like they should belong to one of those mummies in the old movies Tim used to watch late on Saturday nights in Charlie Hale’s truck.
    “I thought this was for the Maxwell team,” Tim said.
    Mac snatched the drink, screwed the top on, and jammed it back into the cooler. “It is. And you’re not a part of the team. Got it?”
    Tim nodded. I do now .
    Mac took the hot dog and tossed it in the trash. Then he grabbed the remaining three dogs and threw them away too.
    Tim just watched, a little amused but still hungry.Mac disappeared back into the hauler, and Tim felt a hand on his shoulder.
    “I see you’ve met Mac,” Dale said.
    “Yeah. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to touch any of your food and drinks.”
    Dale smirked and shook his head, reaching into the cooler and pulling out the drink. “I’ll have a talk with Mac. What’s ours is yours, okay?”
    Tim nodded. “Hey, good time out there. Ninth place isn’t bad.”
    “I’ll take it,” Dale said. “If I could finish in the top 10, I’ll be happy.”
    “My dad said he was tired of watching drivers just going for points,” Tim said. “Said if he was behind the wheel, he’d want to win.”
    “Your dad was smart,” Dale said. “I feel the same way.” He turned as someone moved toward them, then looked back at Tim. “I was thinking instead of fighting with Mac about a burger and a hot dog that we’d go back to the hotel and grab something. That okay with you?”
    “That’d be fine with me,” Tim said. “Breakfast was so good I’d go back there for leftovers.”
    “Good. We’ll be heading into ‘happy hour’ pretty soon—the last practice session. I want to work out a couple of kinks before I head back.”
    One of the on-track reporters came up to Dale,asked how the qualifying had gone, and stuck a mike out.
    Dale smiled