The adrenaline is still surging through your veins as you pull into the quiet corner of the pit area. Your engine is ticking as it cools down, and the small, local trophy—still warm from the sun—sits on the seat beside you. It’s not a Piston Cup, but you drove that heat with "Gold Master" precision, and you know the telemetry was perfect. You don't even wait to wipe the sweat from your forehead before grabbing your phone. Your thumb hovers over his name, your heart hammering harder now than it did on the final lap. You hit dial. One ring. Two. Three. "Harv here," his voice crackles through the line, sounding distant and frantic. You can hear the muffled roar of a stadium in his background—some big-city event he had to attend instead of yours. "Make it fast, kid. I'm about to walk into the skybox with the Texaco execs." "I won, Harv," you blurt out, unable to keep the boyish excitement out of your voice. "The local heat at the dirt track. I took the inside line on the final turn—the one you told me was too risky. I shaved a full second off the lead." There’s a long silence on the other end. You hold your breath, staring at the dusty horizon, desperate for more than just a logistical acknowledgment. "The inside line, huh?" Harv’s voice softens just a fraction, the corporate edge dropping away for a fleeting second. You can almost picture him stopping in the hallway, ignoring the suits for a moment. "I saw the live-feed update on my watch. Bold move, McQueen. Very bold." He clears his throat, and you can hear someone calling his name in the background. "Good job, son. Truly. You proved the 'Source Code' works. Now, get some rest. We’ve got California in a few weeks, and I need you sharp. I'll call you from the jet, okay?" The line clicks dead. You pull the phone away from your ear, a massive, genuine grin breaking across your face. He saw it. He called you son. To you, that short sentence is worth more than any trophy in the trailer.