arkwood's Annual Tournament, the flyer reads. Your time to shine. A rider stares back at me, his hazel eyes gleaming through the gap in his helmet, trying to lure me in. It's working–I figured moving to Parkwood meant my riding days were over, but this flyer feels like a sign.

Footsteps sound from somewhere behind me. I stuff the flyer in my pocket and turn, finding my mother stood in the archway. Her dark hair is scooped into a careless, messy bun, and she's wearing stained Marriette gloves.

"You look suspicious," she says, stepping closer. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." I mean to sound casual, but it comes out too quickly. "What are you doing?"

Amusement flashes in her eyes. "Unpacking and cleaning. Something you'd promised to help me with."

I sigh. "Get Dad to–" I stop when I realize my mistake. My cheeks start to burn. Even though it's been eight months since the accident, sometimes I forget Dad is wheelchair-bound. "Sorry. Hand me a pair of those hideous gloves."

I get to work helping to clean up storage boxes, all the while thinking about the flyer in my pocket. I should be terrified of racing after what happened to Dad–Mom certainly is–but riding is like an addiction in some ways: you know the risks, but you can't seem to quit.

Dad rolls into the kitchen just as Mom and I are finishing up. My stomach drops, the way it always does when I haven't seen him in a while.

Partially paralyzed from the waist down. That's what the doctors at the hospital first told us, then again at the three-month checkup. No maybes or miracles or hoping for the best: he may never walk again.

I think that was the first and only time I have ever seen Mom cry. I didn't–I didn't see the point. Crying wasn't going to make Dad walk again; I was just happy he was alive.

Mom kneels to his height and kisses him. When she pulls back, Dad turns and gives me a lopsided smile, the kind that can usually draw one from me, but I keep looking at his chair and then thinking about the flyer. If I do this, that could be me.

"You okay, Roxy?" he asks.

I run my fingers along the flyer in my pocket. "I'm fine. Is it okay if I head out? I want to do a little bit of exploring before bed."

"Don't stray too far," Mom warns. "Be back before ten."

I head into the garage and switch on the light, waiting for it to flicker to life. In the corner is the outline of my Supermoto bike, hidden by a large white sheet. At least, it used to be white. It's been packed away for so long that a layer of dust has settled on the material, turning it a palish gray.

I take my time rolling it onto the driveway and halfway down the street. Mom thinks allowing me to ride once in a while is a good enough compromise, but she's wrong; a good enough compromise would be letting me race.

I turn the key slightly, and the thing purrs to life. This isn't one of those obnoxious bikes that sound like a steam train, it's a low, warm hum that sounds like a gentle, rhythmic beat. I type the address from the flyer into my phone and slip in my Airpods.

By the time I get to the track, it is sunset. The sun hangs low against the hills, coating the place in a deep golden hue. In the distance, several bikes come flying over a hill, their beams like stars across the horizon.

I pause to take it all in. The Motocross track back home had been relatively simple: flat terrain, small jumps, easy corners, but this track–this track is the kind dreams are made of.

At least, my dreams are. It's set high above rolling hills, with sharp corners, furrowed lanes, and difficult jumps, the kind of layout that makes staying on your bike an all but impossible challenge.

I can't wait.

There are twelve bikes in total, each one magnificent in his own right, but there is one that I can't look away from. He is faster than the others, more daring with his turns, and he takes to each corner with the utmost precision, like his body and bike are one.

These riders are far more skilled than back home. They ride with precision, crouched low to the handlebars as they steer around corners. They fly across hills, riding up and over the slopes, through the air, and back down again like they are weightless.

I'm itching to join them, but I'm stopped by flashes of my father being thrown from his bike, of our trips to the hospital, of his physical therapy. I might love racing, but am I willing to risk my life for it?

"You going to wait there all night, or are you going to actually ride?"

I turn as a brunette sidles up to me and takes her position on the railing. She is a gorgeous Latina, with brown skin, thick black hair that is similar to my own, and wild brown eyes. She must only be a few years older than me, but she possesses the quiet confidence of someone much older.

"I'm just here for the show," I say.

"Oh, you're one of those girls." The name badge on her sweater glints in the light, and the words Parkwood Track are scrawled across her t-shirt.

I frown and say, "I ride, I just don't race. Not lately, anyway."

She thinks for a moment. "Just as well, I suppose."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugs before looking at the track. "These guys aren't the most welcoming. It's why I only race in the morning when it's empty."

"You ride?" I ask. I'd known a few girls back in Arizona who rode, but other than riding, we'd never had much in common.

She flashes a smile, the kind only a fellow racer can give to another. "You know it. I'm Alex."

"Roxy." I finally process what she'd said. "Wait, what do you mean they aren't the most welcoming?"

The smile she flashes is somewhat secretive. "You'll see."

Something dangerous swirls in my stomach: it's the need to race again mixed with the need to prove a point. I stifle it as best as I can. "Who is that, anyway?" I ask, pointing to the silver bike. "They're good."

She doesn't have to look to know who it is I'm talking about. "Tyler Wakeford. Total idiot." She squints at me now, raising a hand to shield her eyes from what's left of the sun. "You know, we're hiring if you're interested in applying. At least you can get paid to just stand around."

I raise my eyebrows. Never has a job so easily landed in my lap. "That would be great."

She glances at her watch. "My break is ending, but drop by tomorrow evening and we'll talk."

I nod and she disappears behind me to serve another table, so I focus my attention on the race. The silver bike wins, which comes as no surprise, and before I can stop myself, I slip on my helmet and hotfoot it down the patio steps.

His dark hair is tousled and sweaty from his helmet, sticking to his forehead in damp, black waves. He is taller than most of the guys at the track, over six feet, and I can't help wonder how someone so big can maneuver a bike with such finesse.

"Hey," I say when he passes, and he stops to give me a brief once over. "You did good out there."

"Thanks." His dark eyes flit away from me like he's already bored. He's about to walk past me when I step in his way.

"Twenty bucks says I beat you." I don't know why I say it. I just know that I'm itching to get back on that track, and there is no sweeter feeling than racing a worthy opponent.

For a second, he is surprised. And then surprise turns to amusement. "On the track?"

I give him a look as if to say, where else? "Yeah."

He grins now, revealing perfect white teeth. He opens his mouth, but before he can deliver what I'm certain is a rejection, someone behind me calls him.

He maneuvers around me without a second look. When I look up at the patio, Alex is watching me with an expression that reads: I told you so.

By the time I get home, my parents are sitting down for dinner. Mom's eyes are like slits as they watch me slip into the chair opposite.

"You went to find a track, didn't you?" she asks. "We've been here two days, and you're already trying to get yourself killed."

I remain quiet, stabbing at a carrot before popping it into my mouth. It's hardly news that my mother hates racing, and the thought of her only child on a motorcycle has her stuck in a constant state of worry.

"What was it like?" Dad asks eagerly. "Any good?"

It's hard not to miss the glimmer of excitement in his eyes. It was he who'd first introduced me to the world of racing. He'd turned professional at eighteen and had won countless tournaments before his accident. From the way his face still lights up, I know that he misses it.

"It was incredible," I say. "Nothing like the track back home."

My father grins, and I am about to go into detail when Mom clanks her fork against her plate. "I don't know why you encourage her, honey."

Dad rolls his eyes while fighting to hide a smile. "Whether I encourage her or not, it would hardly make a difference," he says. "She'll always do what she wants in the end." He looks at me and winks.

With a clenched jaw, Mom picks up her fork once more and stabs at her meatloaf. "How about we talk about your first day of school, instead?"

I recoil in displeasure. My first day had been awkward, and I'd spent the majority of it praying no one would notice me. It's why I'd been so desperate to hunt down that race track. It's the one place–the only place–I have ever belonged.

My mom just doesn't understand that.

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