The sun is beating down. You’ve got the heavy leather harness strapped over your red racing suit. You’ve been trying to pull Bessie for only ten minutes, but your heart is racing in your ears like a trapped bird. Your vision is starting to get "sparkly" at the edges—that familiar iron-deficiency blur. You: (Gasping for air, your face going from flushed red to a scary, ghostly pale) "I... I can do it. I’m... #95. I’m... speed..." You dig your boots into the dirt and lean forward with everything you have. The machine creaks, but the world tilts. Your knees buckle, and you hit the dirt hard. You don't even try to get up; you just stay there, forehead pressed against the cool dust, trembling. Doc Hudson: (He was watching from the porch, arms crossed, but the second he sees your posture change, his "Grumpy Judge" mask vanishes. He’s down the stairs faster than you’ve ever seen him move.) "Sticker? Hey—Martinez!" You: (Voice a faint, shaky whisper) "I’m fine... just... the ground moved. Give me a... second..." Doc: (He’s kneeling in the dirt next to you, his hand—rough and smelling of motor oil—on your shoulder. He feels how much you’re shaking.) "You're white as a sheet, kid. Your hands are ice cold. When was the last time you actually ate something that wasn't a caffeine pill?" You: (A single, shaky tear tracks through the dust on your cheek. You finally stop fighting.) "I... I’m just tired, Doc. My head... it’s spinning