Chapter 18: Pedal Travel

I drove the lake road at 6:02 on Friday evening in a pink bicycle helmet and my grandmother's driving gloves.

The coupe smelled of new leather and bad intentions.

My clipboard sat on the passenger seat, with a HAZARD sticker on the dashboard that said: Do not trust.

"Say something," Quincy said in my ear.

He was a quarter mile behind me in his black SUV.

He had been on the line since the driveway.

"The pedal feels fine."

"That's what a pedal feels like, when it's fine."

"Don't be technical. I'm trying to enjoy my last good brake."

The road ran along the water, with the quarry on the right and the lake on the left.

Ahead lay the long bend, and the new guardrail shone silver in the low sun.

Past the guardrail stood a row of yellow sand barrels.

A very large sign on them said: Bend.

It was the ugliest and most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

"Tilda."

"Yes."

"If it goes, don't steer into the water."

"I'm not an amateur."

"Steer into the sand."

"You said that already, in the driveway, twice."

"I'll say it a third time."

The bend came up faster than I wanted.

I touched the brake.

It went down under my foot, gently, and kept going, and met the floor.

"Pedal travel," I said, "to the floor. 6:07 p.m."

"Tilda."

"Speed, twenty-two. I'm logging it."

"Stop logging it and steer."

I could hear his engine through the phone, and then I heard something else.

A short, bright beep.

"Quincy, you have a second call."

"I know."

"It's Posy."

"I know," he said. "I'm looking at it."

The guardrail slid past on my left.

In the book, this was the moment.

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