The sound of an engine roaring in the distance was almost a familiar lullaby. You grew up with it, with the adrenaline in the air and the smell of worn tires impregnating some of your earliest memories. But here, at home, everything was different. Calmer.

From the stairs, you could hear your mother, Rebecca, talking on the phone in the kitchen. His voice was firm, although with that warm tone he used when negotiating anything, from interviews to making sure nothing was missing at home. In the living room, your father, Carlos, was flipping through some notes, probably analyzing some strategy or reviewing details of his last race.

It was a normal day, or so it seemed. Until your phone rang.

A message lit up the screen.

"Have you seen the news?"

The feeling of calm broke a little. Something was happening. And I had the strange feeling that your last name was involved.