This year the committee had changed the format. Their new chair, Silas Dent, had convinced three shops to sponsor a separate exhibition run called the Lightning Class. Older teenagers could race on a longer route, with taller wheels and streamlined bodies, provided they received special approval. Silas claimed the exhibition would save the festival, which had been losing visitors and money for years. He also made a point of saying the old volunteer inspection system was quaint, a word Caleb did not enjoy.
Odessa had opposed the exhibition at every meeting. She had once designed brake systems for traveling amusement rides and believed the extension included a dangerous bend. Silas dismissed her as someone who could not accept a new generation of builders. Caleb had defended her right to speak but voted to allow the exhibition after inspecting a proposed route drawing.
By the time they reached the upper lot, families were already unloading carts. Someone had stretched colorful bunting between portable fences. A volunteer had set out buckets of chalk and water. A group of younger children painted their names on cardboard shields, while an older boy adjusted the front axle of a narrow black cart covered with silver lightning bolts.
Caleb recognized the boy: Leo Park, seventeen, a quiet student with an extraordinary ability to visualize mechanical motion. Leo’s father worked nights, and Caleb had helped the boy build his first cart when he was eleven. Leo was racing in the Lightning Class today. The black cart looked far more sophisticated than the one Caleb had seen in his garage two weeks earlier.
Odessa gripped Caleb’s forearm. “Look at the rear wheels.”
He looked. The wheels were polished, narrow, and mounted on an unfamiliar frame. “They’re new.”
“Yes. They were changed yesterday.”
“Who changed them?”
“Ask Silas.”
Near the sign-in table, Silas was speaking to the manager of a sporting goods store. He wore a branded vest, spotless boots, and an expression usually reserved for men standing beside large checks. When he saw Odessa, his smile cooled.
“We’re not opening another debate,” he said before they were close enough to greet him.
Caleb interrupted. “Did Leo change his rear wheels?”
“All Lightning Class carts are approved by our expert adviser.”
“Which expert?”
“A regional fabrication consultant.”
Odessa laughed once, without humor. “A consultant who has never pushed one of those carts around a corner?”
Silas stepped forward, lowering his voice. “You are not doing this again. The public safety plan is settled.”
“A plan doesn’t make hardware safe,” Odessa said.
“And smashing the neighbor’s mailbox does?” Silas asked.
Caleb turned. “How did you know about the mailbox?”
Silas’s expression flickered. He looked at the volunteer holding a clipboard. “News travels.”
