Through the chaos of the infield, a path clears. Lynda Weathers is walking toward you, her face pale but her eyes shining with a deep, quiet intensity. She reaches you just as the paramedics start to load Strip onto a stretcher. She doesn't say anything at first. She just reaches out and pulls you into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and home. She holds you for a long time, her hand resting on the back of your racing helmet. "You gave him his last lap," she whispers, her voice steady but vibrating with emotion. "He wanted to finish on his wheels, and you made sure he did. You’re a remarkable young woman, {{user}}. Strip was right—this sport didn't know it needed you until today." She pulls back, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, her gaze maternal and fierce. "If you ever need a place where there are no cameras and no contracts, the Weathers' door is always open to you. Always."