He asks Charles about it as pre-season testing draws to a close – whether Charles minds having to spend so much time on Carlos’s wings when he must be exhausted from driving.

Charles looks at him oddly.

“Why do you ask this?” he says. “They are your wings, Carlos.”

Carlos thinks he can be forgiven for wanting to cry a little, at that.

The air smells of burnt rubber and kerosene. The track is grippy and rubbered-in from the hundreds of karts that pass over it every day. The sounds of the city beyond fall away; the roar of the two-stroke engines and the squeal of tyres mixes with shouted curses and laughter.

The track blurs past, again and again; Daniel doesn’t need to think to... See more

Daniel had thought death would smell like blood and loneliness and antiseptic. He never thought it would smell like flock. That it would be so warm, here with this impossible version of Max who is holding him close and whose breath ruffles Daniel’s hair.

Daniel clings to Max’s shirt, finds his voice.

“Can I rest now,” he rasps. He wants permission to... See more