The sky above is one unbroken pane of blue; the sea crisp and clear. Max’s laugh is a bubbly cackle in his ear as their sodden wings bump against each other.

The sun is shining, but it doesn’t burn. It warms.

Daniel doesn’t need to do anything except live. He has his flock and his wings.

He has all the time in the world.

It had been worth it – all the blood and the cruelty and the fight. All the younger generations entering the sport – Ollie, Kimi, Franco – all of them are protected now. Formula One will never see an eighteen-year-old with freshly trimmed wings like Max again; it will never see another George Russell, pushed into wing dysmorphia. It will never see... See more

Daniel’s takes a breath. Leans his cheek into Max’s hair.

He looks down at his feathers, fiery yellow and red and deep, sea blue, shimmering softly in the brightening dawn.

There was a time he thought it was good he wore Red Bull’s colours.

But maybe he’s been wrong all along. They’re not Red Bull’s colours. They’re his.

“Max.”

“Hmm?”

“What if I...”... See more

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