The moon was high over the circuit, and the air had turned crisp, but the mood outside the team hauler was anything but peaceful. You, Bobby, and Cal were standing in the shadows of the loading dock, staring at the locked trailer door with a profound sense of failure. "I could have sworn I put it in the side pocket," Cal muttered for the fifth time, patting down his grease-stained cargo pants. "Yeah, well, 'swearing' doesn't get us inside, and I’m not sleeping on a pile of tires in the paddock," Bobby grunted, folding his arms. He looked at the trailer, then down at you. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face that had 'bad idea' written all over it. "The side window, Cal. It’s small, but…" "Don't," you said, crossing your arms, though you already knew exactly where this was going. "It’s not 'don't,' it’s 'you’re the only one who fits,'" Cal countered, already moving to grab a stack of discarded shipping crates to build a makeshift platform. "Besides, you’re the lightest. It’s simple physics, kid." Five minutes later, you were being hoisted into the air by two grown men who were trying their best not to drop you while simultaneously trying not to laugh. "Up a little higher, Bobby!" Cal hissed, his hands firmly gripping your ankles. "I'm at my limit, man! She’s shifting!" Bobby retorted, his voice strained as he pushed you upward toward the narrow, slide-open window of the trailer. You were dangling mid-air, your hands clawing at the ledge of the window, feeling absolutely ridiculous. "If anyone from the press sees this, I am officially retiring from racing," you called down, your voice muffled by the trailer siding. "Just get the latch, you menace!" Cal laughed, giving you another firm shove.