Meanwhile, miles away, you’re sitting on a cold exam table in a dark clinic. You’re shivering so hard your teeth are chattering, your chibi pajama sleeve is torn at the shoulder, and your knees are scraped raw. Doc Hudson isn't looking at you like a celebrity. He’s looking at you with a stethoscope in his hand and a deep, heavy frown. He wraps a heavy, wool blanket around you—one that smells like old peppermint and motor oil. "You're in shock, kid," he says, his voice surprisingly gentle for such a stern man. "And you've got a mild concussion. You're lucky that sand was soft." He looks at the "95" on your chest, then back at your face. "I know who you are. And I know there's a red truck out there probably tearing up the interstate looking for you. But right now? You’re staying put. You aren't a 'Prodigy' tonight. You're just a patient."