Mater hasn’t unhooked you. Not fully. He’s lowered you so your boots are touching the dirt, but the heavy iron hook of the tow-crane is still firmly snagged under the reinforced leather belt of your crimson racing suit. Every time you try to stomp forward in frustration, the cable tenses, giving your waist a little tug back. You’re being "walked" like a disobedient puppy. You: (Your entire face is a deep, burning crimson that matches your #95 jacket. You’re staring at the dirt, your blue eyes shimmering with a mix of rage and genuine, shaky embarrassment.) "Mater... please. I can walk. I have legs. I’m a world-class athlete. Just... unhook the crane." Mater: (Beaming, steering his truck slowly behind you) "Oh, I’m just makin' sure you don't 'bolt' again, Miss Lightning! You’re fast! Sheriff said keep a tight line on ya!" The Sheriff: (Walking ahead of you, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel) "Keep your head up, Sticker. Town’s watching. You wanted to be a star? Well, here’s your parade." The Humiliation: You pass Flo’s V8 Café. The neon lights hit your face, highlighting the grease smudge on your cheek and the way your racing suit is bunched up around your waist from the hook. You can see Sally and Ramone leaning against the railing, watching the "Global Phenomenon" get towed into town by her belt-loops. You: (A single, frustrated sniffle escapes. You try to cover it with a cough, but your 16-year-old body is betraying you. You feel small. You feel like a kid who got caught breaking a window, not a superstar.) "Don't look at me. Don't... nobody take a picture. If this ends up on the internet, I’m retiring. I’m serious." Mater: "Don't worry, we don't got no 'internet' out here! Just us!" You: (Closing your eyes, wishing the desert would just swallow you whole) "That’s worse, Mater. That’s so much worse."