The Longest Stage

I am taping a grease-stained road map to the dashboard of the shared Mitsubishi Lancer, my fingers sticky with adhesive and desert dust. The sun has been down for three hours, and the Atacama is already dropping ten degrees a minute. My driver, Leo, is asleep in the backseat, his broken wrist wrapped in a splint that looks like it was made from a tree branch and hope. If we don’t hit the next checkpoint by dawn, both our teams are disqualified. No prize money. No glory. Just Leo’s bad luck and my bad math.

The truck door groans open, flooding the cab with cold air and the scent of motor oil and stale coffee.

“Move,” a voice says.