He knew this track. Every curve and twist, every rough patch, every jump, and when he rode it, he was the fastest car on the road. The other cars were stationary obstacles, variables to make the race interesting, potential targets, but not real competitors.

The only reality was the wheel between his hands, vibrating with the turns. He leaned back into the couch, swerving to pick up a coin, powering up so he could spread oil behind him, fouling the track and making his race easier. He had to take out the pack—otherwise they ganged up on him, cutting into his time.

He ran the race over and over, changing opponents, trying new tactics, trying to run a perfect race. Random interruptions pulled him out of the track only momentarily. The only reality was the race. Dinnertime and bedtime and shopping for school were arbitrary constructs, designed to cut into his race time.

At 10:34 Wednesday night, he finally beat his high score. He was on a roll. He knew he could do it again.

And so he faced the track one last time. Everything was going perfectly. He cut in front of the pack early, dropping bombs behind him. His car was handling like a dream. He was only feet from the finish line . . .

. . . he sat up straight with his heart racing and his eyes wide as his mother nudged his shoulder. “Get up, honey. You’re going to miss the bus.”

"Winner"