The sun has finally dipped below the horizon, painting the desert sky in shades of deep violet and burnt orange, but inside the garage, it’s still all fluorescent hum and the smell of high-grade synthetic oil. You’ve been hunched over your car's suspension for the better part of six hours, your hair pulled back in a messy knot, grease smudged across your forehead. You’re 16, but your back feels like it belongs to someone twice your age. The garage door slides open, and the cooling night air rushes in. You don't even look up until a pair of sensible, stylish boots stop right at the edge of your work mat. "Lightning," Sally’s voice is soft, but it carries that unmistakable 'I’m not taking no for an answer' tone. You wipe your hands on a rag, finally looking up. "Hey, Sal. I’m just about done with the camber adjustment. If I finish this, I can start on the tires before—" "No," she interrupts, gently but firmly taking the wrench right out of your hand and setting it on the workbench. She crosses her arms, leaning against the frame of your car. "You’ve spent the last three weeks oscillating between the track, this garage, and your history textbooks. You’re seventeen, not seventy, and the town is throwing a bonfire tonight. It’s not an option, it’s a mandate." You try to protest, gesturing to the disassembled parts scattered across the floor, but she just gives you that knowing, weary look that makes you feel like a kid again—the kind of look that bypasses the "racer" persona entirely. "The car will still be here tomorrow, and the Piston Cup isn't going to vanish into thin air just because you took three hours to breathe," she says, grabbing your jacket from the hook and tossing it to you. "If you don't come out, I’m telling Doc you’ve been skipping your stretching routine, and I know how much you love his lecture on 'maintenance of the human machine.'"