But Caleb had not called anybody, and Odessa had walked straight here without speaking to another adult. Something was wrong with the timing.
A clear plastic display near the entrance showed the new race route. Caleb studied its sharp final corner. It was not simply longer. Instead of ending before the gravel loading apron, the exhibition would descend another sixty yards toward a temporary finish arch positioned on the apron itself. The roadway curved left. A row of hay bales protected a retaining wall. Beyond the bales lay a much steeper gravel bank.
“Why is the finish down there?” Caleb asked.
“Better sight lines,” Silas said. “The sponsors wanted the crowd to see the entire run.”
“Our earlier design ended before that corner.”
“Our earlier design was boring.”
Odessa looked at Caleb, and he hated that she was waiting to see whether he would excuse the change. “I need to inspect the black cart,” he said.
Silas planted himself in the path. “You are not the Lightning Class inspector. And considering that you arrived with a woman who just committed property damage, I think we should all cool off.”
Caleb felt the first true spark of anger. “My mailbox can wait. Leo can’t.”
Silas tapped the board showing the day’s schedule. “Twenty minutes. We have guests coming. You don’t get to disrupt this because you miss being in charge.”
Leo heard his name and looked up from the cart. His expression was hopeful and uneasy at once. Caleb saw an adult he respected standing between him and another adult he trusted. A child could not easily navigate that kind of disagreement, especially when the decision concerned the biggest day of his year.
Odessa moved toward the black cart. Silas told her to stop. She did not. She knelt by the rear frame, looked closely at a shining metal piece, and touched nothing. Then she straightened very slowly.
“It’s not only the corner,” she said. “They’ve put him in a machine nobody here has tested.”
CHAPTER THREE: THE PART THAT DID NOT FIT
Caleb had expected to find some obvious shortcut, perhaps a missing cotter pin or a poorly tightened bolt. The cart was beautifully finished. Its seat was reinforced; the welds on the front fork were clean; the steering cables moved without catching. Whoever had installed the rear assembly knew how to make machinery look reliable.
Leo stood beside him, twisting the strap of his helmet between his fingers.
“It’s faster now,” he said. “Silas says I could set a county record.”
“Who built this rear cradle?”
“A man came to the workshop yesterday. He brought the whole assembly. I didn’t even have to pay.”
“What man?”
“I only know his first name. Grant. He had one of the sponsor shirts.”
