Then he woke up in the chase, the race. Wind blasted him. He was in his flyer, but the canopy was adios muchacho, destroyed. His car spun in a zany direction faster than he could make out. Eric had time to bring his hands down from over his head. The tip of his middle finger was shorn off. Stunned, Eric looked past his hand and saw the bright glow of the dash. He reached for the wheel with his good hand.A wall loomed, then lunged at him.Oh, I don’t have time, he thought.He crashed.