On the Edge by Pamela Britton

anyway, sinking into the padded seat that had been adjusted to fit his tall frame and easing the vehicle forward. It was a real race car—all right, truck. But he’d raced just about everything there was out there. He could handle this.

    Adam shifted through the gears, the two walls that framed pit road quickly running out until he was suddenly there, out on the track.

    At a speedway.

    Holy shit.

    To his right the dark gray posts that held the catch fence slipped by faster and faster. He’d seen the sight on TV a thousand times before.

    But never like this.

    And even though the track’s name had changed in recent years, it would still always be Charlotte to him—and it seemed surreal to be driving on it.

    Easy, he told himself. Just be cool. Get a feel for it, like Sanders said.

    Sanders. From Sanders’ Racing. One of the most famous owners in the history of the sport.

    The truck bobbled.

    Concentrate!

    He shifted into fourth gear. It didn’t matter who was watching him, he told himself. He wasn’t here for Blain Sanders, he was here for his daughter.

    Taking a deep breath, he let the asphalt slip beneath him, faster and faster, bringing the truck up to speed. Down the backstretch again. Press the accelerator. Back off near the corner. Use the brake to throw into turn three.

    Damn near the same.

    It felt damn near the same as driving a modified, only faster and…different. Faster and yet slower because as his vision narrowed, the world outside became a blur so that speed became hard to gauge. He headed out of turn four, the grandstands unrecognizable now because he went so fast—his left foot hovering over the brake, right foot easing off the gas, but not a lot. He didn’t need to ease off because he was in control, the truck responding to his hands as if he’d driven race trucks his entire life.

    Maybe in his dreams he had.

    “How’s she feel, driver?”

    Adam headed into turn two again, the back end breaking loose. They’d have to fix that if he wanted to improve his lap times.

    “She’s loose out of the corner. And really, really tight going in.”

    “The last driver thought the truck was loose going in and tight coming out.”

    “Well I don’t know why he thought that when it’s pushing damn near into the wall.”

    As if to illustrate his point, the truck drifted into the rubber marbles of turn one, Adam easing the truck down and back into the groove. Close. He’d almost lost it. And when he stabbed the accelerator, it broke loose yet again.

    He tried to drive the truck that way for a couple laps, his spotter rattling off lap times—times that weren’t all that great.

    “I’d like to come in early,” he said. They were given twenty laps to feel out the truck, but Adam didn’t see the point in hanging out.

    “Roger that,” Sanders said after a momentary silence. “You can come in early if you want.”

    Less than a minute later he was on pit road, the truck rolling to a stop in the makeshift pit stall.

    “What kind of adjustments do you want?” Sanders asked, leaning into the window as the truck idled.

    This was part of the test, Adam realized, because Sanders knew what adjustments to make. In fact, he probably knew better than Adam did—this was his truck.

    “Loosen her up for me with a track bar adjustment, if you don’t mind. That ought to fix the tight going in problem.”

    “Track bar? You sure you don’t want to take out some wedge first?”

    “Nope. I don’t want to lose the forward bite. Let’s do the track bar first and see how that helps.”

    He caught a glimpse of something in Blain’s eyes then, something that looked like approval. “Roger that,” Sanders said. “Loosen up that track bar,” he told the crew.

    It wasn’t like a race day pit stop—this was a test session and so everything was more leisurely—but to Adam it felt real. No, unreal to be sitting on pit road, the speedway’s massive grandstands—empty—stretching up to