Archive of Our Own

Mark is elbow-deep in a carburetor when he hears the footsteps.

He doesn't look up. Doesn't need to. He's known Sebastian Vettel for the better part of a decade—across continents, across race tracks, across one disastrous attempt to build a treehouse that still leans seven degrees to the left. He knows the way Seb walks when he's got good news (bouncy, like a golden retriever who's found a stick). He knows the way Seb walks when he's got bad news (also bouncy, but with a nervous edge, like a golden retriever who's found a stick and also knocked over a vase).

This is the second one.

Mark sets down his wrench. Wipes his hands on an already-dirty rag. Looks up.

"Let me guess," he says. "Oscar."

Seb's face does something complicated. His eyebrows twitch. His mouth opens. Closes.

"Come on," Mark says. "He's doing something right now, isn't he? Something that's got you looking for a quick fix?"

Then Seb grins. He doesn't look like he's feeling guilty or anything remotely apologetic. He looks like a man who finds a nine-year-old's chaos genuinely, deeply entertaining.

"Yeah," Seb says. "He broke the karts again."

Mark closes his eyes.

"Again?"

"Yes."

"Plural?"

Seb holds up two fingers. "Two karts this morning."

Mark stares at him. The equipment shed is quiet. Somewhere outside, a bird is singing. The universe, Mark thinks, is laughing at him.

"How."

Seb leans against the workbench. He's still grinning. Mark wants to wipe that grin off his face with a wrench.

"Well," Seb says, "it started with him convincing three other kids that the karts handle better if you adjust the steering limiters."

"Of course it did."

"By the time Nico noticed, two karts were making terrifying clicking sounds—"

"Terrifying how?"

"Like a small animal dying inside an engine."

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose.

"—and one was somehow stuck in reverse."

Mark's hand drops. "Karts don't have reverse."

"This one does now."

Mark stares at him. Seb stares back, unrepentant.

Mark turns back to the carburetor. He doesn't need to be working on it. He just needs something to do with his hands while he processes the fact that his summer camp—his beautiful, expensive, insurance-nightmare of a summer camp—is being systematically dismantled by a nine-year-old Australian who apparently has no fear of death or consequences.

He tightens a bolt that was already tight. Loosens it. Tightens it again.

"How did we even get this kid," Mark mutters.

Seb, still leaning against the workbench, still wearing that insufferable grin, shrugs. "You accepted his application."

"I know I accepted his application. I'm asking why I accepted his application."

"Because he's Australian?"

Mark looks up. Seb's grin has softened into something almost knowing.

"That's not—" Mark starts.

"It is, though. You saw 'Melbourne' on the address line and your heart grew three sizes."

"My heart did not—"

"You called him 'mate' in your acceptance letter. I saw the draft."

Mark sets down the wrench with more force than necessary. "I call everyone mate."

"You don't. You call Americans 'sir' and Brits 'chap' and Italians 'amico' like you're trying to get deported. You called Oscar 'mate' because he's from home."

Mark doesn't have a response to that. Because Seb isn't wrong.

The thing is, Camp Geronimo doesn't get a lot of Australians.

They get Brits, mostly. Wealthy London families who want their children to have a "proper summer experience" and have heard through the private school grapevine that this is the place for kids who eat, sleep, and breathe karting. They get Italians, too—families from the suburbs of Milan who drive down to the track every weekend and have been doing this since their kids could walk. And Americans, of course, mostly from the Northeast, mostly with too much money and not enough sense, the kind of parents who ask Mark if there's a helicopter pad (there isn't) and then look disappointed (he's not sorry).

But not a lot of Australians. They are quite rare.

He read Oscar's file twice. The kid wanted to be here. You could feel it in the way the application had been filled out—every box, every field, like he’d been the one filling it in instead of his parents.

So he thought, we should let him in. What's the worst that could happen.

He's learned, now, what the worst is.

The worst is a nine-year-old with no fear, no off switch, and an accent so thick you could spread it on toast. The worst is a kid who looks at a "caution: wet paint" sign and thinks challenge. The worst is a child who has, in seven days, managed to alienate three counselors and somehow convince a group of older kids that he's worth following.

The worst is Oscar Piastri, and Mark has begun to suspect that he's only just getting started.

—

The dining hall at dinner is a special kind of warfare.

Mark's standing near the serving line, watching the chaos unfold, and five years into this business he can tell you all about how precarious the balance between order and chaos has always been when it comes to forty-something kids between eight and twelve.

It's not just the logistics of serving summer camp food from the kitchen to the table—though that's its own nightmare, a carefully choreographed dance of trays and portions and dietary restrictions that Rosa runs like a military operation. It's the keeping them there part. The keeping them seated, keeping them from launching peas across the table, keeping them from trading desserts like they're brokering peace treaties.

Keeping kids around a table to behave requires the kind of preciseness you'd find in defusing a bomb.

One wrong move. One moment of inattention. And the whole thing goes up.

Some of the kids have known each other outside of camp. They arrive already bonded, already speaking in shorthand, already scheming. Some of them are just making friends here—the tentative way kids do, circling each other like cautious animals until someone says "do you like karts?" and suddenly they're inseparable.

And some of them are like Oscar Piastri.

Mark spots him in the corner. Of course he does. He's been looking for Oscar all day, ever since the karting incident this morning, ever since Seb came rummaging through the equipment shed with that guilty grin. Oscar is sitting with a group of older kids—ten and eleven-year-olds who should know better but have somehow fallen under his spell. He's speaking expressively, hands moving, eyes alive. His gaze sweeps the hall: to the kitchen, to the counselors stationed at the exits, to the serving line where Rosa is doling out pasta.

Then back to the kitchen.

Then to the counselors.

Then to the kitchen again.

And Mark knows. In his guts, in his bones, in the part of him that has spent fifteen years in racing and five years in camp and a lifetime around competitive people who can't turn it off—he knows.

"Shit," Mark mutters.

The last two times Oscar got that look, there was a food battle.

Not a food fight. A food battle. Something that's coordinated and strategic. The kind of chaos that requires planning and execution and a level of tactical thinking that Mark would almost admire if he hadn't been the one cleaning yogurt off the ceiling at 1 AM.

The first time, Oscar had somehow convinced three kids at separate tables to launch their desserts simultaneously. Applesauce everywhere. A counselor slipped. A kid cried. Mark wrote an incident report that he still pulls out sometimes when he needs to remember what true suffering looks like.

The second time, Oscar had recruited the older kids. The ones who should have known better. They'd staged a diversion—a "spilled" drink at the front of the hall—while Oscar and his minions raided the kitchen. Mark had found him in the pantry, arms full of pudding cups, looking for all the world like a feral cat who had just caught a bird.

"It's not stealing if I was going to eat it anyway," Oscar had said.

Mark had sent him to bed without dessert. The irony was not lost on him.

Now, watching Oscar's eyes sweep the hall again, Mark feels something cold settle in his stomach.

"He's planning something," Mark says.

Seb appears beside him. He must have sensed the tension—or maybe he just saw Mark's face do the thing it does when Oscar is about to cause chaos.

"What?" Seb asks. "What's he doing?"

"I don't know yet. But look at him. Look at his eyes."

Seb looks. Oscar is leaning toward one of the older kids, whispering something. The older kid nods. Oscar glances at the kitchen again.

"Ah," Seb says. "That's his scheming face."

Mark moves.

He doesn't run—running would cause a panic, would alert the kids that something is wrong, would tip off Oscar that he's been caught. But he walks quickly, weaving between tables, his eyes fixed on the corner where Oscar is holding court.

Seb follows close behind. "What's the plan?"

"Intercept. Distract. Remove him from the premises if necessary."

"Remove him to where?"

"The moon. Antarctica. Anywhere without a kitchen."

Mark is halfway across the dining hall when he sees it.

Seb's hand catches his elbow. Stops him in his tracks.

"Wait," Seb says. "Look."

Mark follows Seb's gaze.

There, across from Oscar, half-hidden by a minion's shoulder, is Lando Norris.

Mark hadn't noticed him at first. Lando has a way of disappearing, of blending into the background, of being so quiet and well-behaved that he doesn't register on Mark's chaos radar. He's the kind of kid you forget about until you need someone to be responsible, and then he's suddenly the most reliable person in the room.

Right now, Lando is leaning across the table. He's not yelling. He's not even gesturing. He's just... talking. His mouth is moving. His expression is calm.

And Oscar is listening.

Mark watches in real-time as the scheming drains out of Oscar's face. The tension in his shoulders loosens. His hands stop moving. His eyes stop sweeping the hall.

Lando says something else. Shorter this time. Oscar nods.

Then Oscar turns to his minions.

"Actually," he says—Mark can just barely hear it across the noise of the dining hall—"new plan. We're not doing that."

The older kids exchange confused glances. One of them starts to argue. Oscar cuts him off with such an authoritative look that Mark has never seen on a nine-year-old's face before. 

The subject is closed.

Lando picks up his water bottle. Takes a calm sip. He doesn't look triumphant. He doesn't even look like he's done anything remarkable. He just sits there, quiet and steady, while the storm he just calmed settles around him.

Mark stares.

Seb is still holding his elbow.

"Did you see that?" Seb whispers.

"Yes."

"He just... stopped him."

"Yes."

"How?"

Mark doesn't have an answer. He's been running this camp for five years. He's been around racing for longer. He's seen kids like Oscar before—the ones who are too much, too loud, too hungry, too everything. He's seen counselors try every technique in the book to reach them. Timeouts. Rewards. Consequences. None of it works. The chaos always finds a way out.

But Lando Norris doesn't use any of those techniques. Lando Norris doesn't use techniques at all. He just... is. And Oscar, inexplicably, impossibly, listens.

"We should put them in the same cabin," Mark says.

Seb raises an eyebrow. "You want to put the chaos kid and the calm kid together?"

"Lando can control him."

"Or Oscar will corrupt him."

Mark considers this. Looks at Lando, who is now saying something that makes Oscar actually laugh—a real laugh, not the sharp one that means something is about to break. A soft one.

"Worth the risk," Mark says.

—

The cabin reassignment happened at 11 PM. The schedule change happened at 6 AM. Mark has been running on coffee and spite for approximately four hours, and he's starting to regret every decision that led him to this moment.

Now, at 7:15 AM, Mark is standing near the karting track, watching the morning mist burn off the asphalt. The first session doesn't start for another forty-five minutes, but the track is already alive with the sound of mechanics preparing everything.

And Lando Norris is already here.

Mark spots him sitting on the edge of the track, legs dangling over the side, a water bottle in his hands. He's watching the sunrise. Or maybe he's watching the karts. It's hard to tell with Lando. The kid has a way of looking at things like he's seeing something no one else can see.

Mark walks over. Sits down next to him. The asphalt is cold through his jeans.

Lando looks up. "Morning," he says.

"Morning."

Mark takes a moment to look at him properly. He's seen Lando around camp, of course—in the dining hall, on the track, trailing quietly behind the other kids. But he's never looked at him like this. Like a puzzle he's trying to solve.

Lando is ten. He's small for his age, tiny even, with a frame that looks like it might blow away in a strong wind. His hair is a mess of dark curls, falling over his forehead in a way that would drive a stricter adult crazy. 

And his smile. When he smiles—which he does now, a small, polite thing—he looks almost cherubic. Like one of those Renaissance paintings of angels that Mark's mother used to hang in the hallway.

An absolute angel, Mark thinks. How is this kid real.

This is Lando's second year at Camp Geronimo. He arrived last summer as an unknown—just another name on the roster, just another kid with a parent who'd heard about the program through the grapevine. It took approximately one practice session for him to become a legend.

"He's the fastest kid I've ever seen," Nico had said after the first week. "Not just here. Anywhere."

By the end of last summer, Lando had a reputation. The other kids talked about him in hushed voices. The counselors used him as an example. "See how Lando takes that corner? That's how you do it." Mark had watched parents point at him from across the track, whispering to each other: "That one. He's going places."

Mark doesn't know if that's true. The path from junior karting to Formula 1 is littered with the corpses of childhood prodigies who burned out or grew up or just couldn't make the jump. But there's something about Lando—a stillness, a focus, a way of seeing the track that Mark recognizes from his own racing days.

He's special. Mark knows it. Nico knows it. Even Seb, who pretends not to care about lap times, has commented on the way Lando drives.

"Thanks for being fine with the changes," Mark says to Lando.

Lando shrugs. It's a small movement, barely noticeable. "It's fine. I like the new cabin. It's closer to the lake."

Mark files this away. "And the schedule? You're up earlier now."

"I don't mind. I wake up early anyway."

"To practice?"

Lando makes a face—not annoyed, just thoughtful. "Not really. I just... wake up. My brain turns on and I can't go back to sleep."

Mark knows this feeling. He's had it for thirty years.

"How do you find the place?" Mark asks. "The camp, I mean."

Lando's face softens. It's the first time Mark has seen him look anything other than politely neutral. "I love it. I like that I get to go karting almost every day. And I like the other stuff too—the swimming, the climbing. It's fun."

"Even the climbing? I heard you're not a fan of heights."

Lando's ears go slightly pink. "Who told you that?"

"Seb. He said you got halfway up the wall and froze."

"That was last year. I'm better now."

"Better, or not scared?"

Lando considers this. "Still scared. But I do it anyway."

Mark nods. This is the kind of answer he likes. The kind that separates kids who want to be good from kids who want to be great.

"And the people?" Mark asks. "The other kids?"

Lando makes a face—the thinking face, the one where his eyes go distant and his mouth presses into a line. "Yeah. They're great. It's fun."

"Anyone giving you trouble?"

"No."

"Anyone you don't get along with?"

Lando shakes his head. "Everyone's nice."

Mark believes him. He's never seen Lando argue with anyone, never seen him lose his temper, never seen him do anything other than smile and nod and quietly dominate the track. The kid is almost too easy.

"Do you feel challenged?" Mark asks. "On the track, I mean. Do you feel like you've got enough competition?"

Lando's water bottle pauses halfway to his mouth. He thinks about it.

"I don't know," he says. "Some of the kids are just... destroying things." He makes a vague gesture with the bottle. Mark suspects he means Oscar but doesn't want to name names. "But there's a few that are faster. Some guys I knew from last year came back, and they're faster than they were. That's great."

"You like that? When they're faster?"

"It makes me try harder."

Mark nods. This is the right answer too.

"Do you feel like you're faster than last year?"

Lando nods immediately. No hesitation. "The karts are better. The track's better. I've been practicing."

"At home?"

"Yeah. My dad takes me to the track near our house. We go almost every weekend."

He starts talking about the karts. The new chassis. The engine upgrades. The way the tires grip on the second lap versus the third. It's technical, precise, the kind of language that comes from a kid who has spent hours listening to mechanics and engineers and coaches who take him seriously.

Mark listens for a while. Then he cuts him off.

"Lando."

The kid stops mid-sentence. Looks up.

"What do you know about Oscar?"

Lando blinks. The shift in topic doesn't seem to throw him—he's adaptable, Mark notes, filing this away too—but there's a flicker of something in his expression. Curiosity, maybe. Or caution.

"Oscar Piastri?"

"That's the one."

Lando sets down his water bottle. Considers the question.

"He's fast," Lando says. "He's still new to this—you can tell, the way he takes corners, he's not smooth yet. But he's kind of fast."

"Kind of?"

"I mean... he's not the fastest. But he's getting there."

Mark nods. He's noticed this too.

"Did you know," Lando says, and there's something in his voice now—not quite excitement, but close—"he used to race RC cars?"

Mark blinks. "RC cars?"

"Radio-controlled. The little ones. He told me. He raced them competitively, like, actual competitions. Back in Australia. He said it helped him learn racing lines and throttle control."

Mark stares at Lando. Lando stares back, completely serious.

"RC cars," Mark repeats.

"Yeah. He's really good at it, apparently. Won some championships."

"How did you find that out?" Mark asks.

Lando shrugs. "We talk."

"You talk."

"Yeah. He's... interesting."

Mark watches Lando's face. The kid's expression hasn't changed—still calm, still polite, still impossible to read. But there's something underneath. A softness, maybe. A fondness.

"You like him," Mark says. It's not a question.

Lando's ears go pink again. "He's fine."

"He's a nightmare."

"He's fine," Lando repeats. "He just needs someone to tell him when to stop."

—

The observation deck isn't really a deck. It's a raised platform that Mark built three summers ago after realizing that watching track sessions from ground level meant watching through a crowd of counselors, parents, and kids who should be racing but were instead standing in his sightline. It's wooden, slightly uneven, and offers a perfect view of the entire track—every turn, every straight, every potential disaster.

Mark leans against the railing. Seb stands beside him. Below them, a group of ten kids is suiting up for the morning session. The karts are lined up in the pit area, gleaming in the sun. Nico is doing his pre-session safety check, moving from kart to kart with the precision of a man who has never once trusted a child to not tamper with equipment.

And in the corner, away from the chaos, two figures stand close together.

Lando is talking. His hands are moving, pointing toward the track, tracing the lines of the corners. He's in his racing suit, zipped to the neck, his helmet tucked under one arm. His curly hair is a mess, flattened in some places and sticking up in others.

Oscar is listening. Really listening—not the way he listens to counselors (which is to say, not at all), but the way a student listens to a teacher he actually respects. His head is tilted. His eyes are following Lando's hands. His own helmet is dangling from his fingers, forgotten.

"Interesting," Mark says.

Seb follows his gaze. "What?"

"Them."

They watch as Lando points to turn three—a tricky right-hander that has claimed more than its share of karts. He's saying something, gesturing with both hands now, demonstrating the line. Oscar nods. Asks something. Lando answers. Demonstrates again.

Oscar's posture has changed. The chaos is gone. The scheming, the restlessness, the constant moving—all of it, vanished. He's standing still. Focused. Learning.

"I think I have a theory," Mark says, "why Oscar's obeying Lando."

Seb raises an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"Look at him."

They look.

Oscar is now following Lando toward the karts like a small, feral duckling who has imprinted on the wrong species. You wouldn't think, watching him now, that this is the same kid who gave counselors heart attacks by climbing to the top of the advanced climbing wall with no harness. The same kid who pretended he was drowning—twice—just to watch the lifeguard panic. The same kid who started the whole frog problem, which remains unsolved and, at this point, probably permanent.

"He's so smitten," Mark says.

Seb stares at him. "Smitten?"

"Look at him. He's like a puppy. He follows Lando everywhere. He does what Lando says. He listens to Lando. No one else gets that treatment."

"So you think—"

"I think Oscar's got a crush on him."

Seb is quiet for a moment. Below them, Oscar has stopped following. He's looking at Lando with an expression that Mark can only describe as soft—which is not a word he ever thought he'd use for the kid who tried to hotwire a golf cart.

"Seb. Look at him. Isn't that objectively the cutest thing you've ever seen?"

Seb's mouth twitches. He's trying not to smile. Failing.

"They're ten, Mark."

"Oscar's nine. Lando's ten. And what, ten-year-olds can't have crushes?"

"I'm not saying they can't—"

"Then what are you saying?"

Seb is quiet again. Below them, Lando is now showing Oscar how to hold the steering wheel. Showing him. Like a coach. Like someone who has done this a thousand times and is patiently explaining it to someone who hasn't.

"I don't know," Seb says finally. "I just feel like there might be other explanations."

"Like what?"

Seb shrugs. "I don't know. I just... feel like 'crush' is a lazy assumption."

Mark turns to look at him. "Lazy?"

"You're looking at two kids being nice to each other and deciding it must be romantic."

"I didn't say romantic. I said a crush. It's different."

"Not really."

"There's absolutely a difference—"

"Mark."

"What?"

Seb is smiling now. That annoying smile. The one that says I know something you don't.

"Just watch," Seb says. "Before you go diagnosing anyone."

They watch.

The session starts. Ten karts roar to life, filling the air with the high-pitched whine of two-stroke engines. The kids take formation behind Nico's pace kart, following him around the track for a warm-up lap.

Lando is third in line. Oscar is eighth.

The pace kart peels off. The session begins.

Lando is fast. Mark has seen him drive a hundred times, but he still finds himself watching with something like awe. The kid doesn't fight the kart. He doesn't wrestle it. He becomes it—smooth, fluid, every movement precise and intentional. He takes turn three like he's done it a million times, hitting the apex perfectly, carrying his speed through the exit.

Oscar is... not that.

He's fast. Faster than he was yesterday, faster than he was last week. But he's not smooth. He fights the kart, wrestles it through corners, brakes too late and accelerates too early. He's learning—Mark can see him learning, can see him trying to apply whatever Lando was teaching him—but he's not there yet.

Lap after lap, Lando's times drop. He's pushing now, chasing something only he can see. His kart is a blur of color against the asphalt, a study in controlled aggression.

Oscar is a few places behind him.

The session ends. Lando posts the fastest time. Oscar is... not last. But not where he wants to be.

Mark watches Oscar climb out of his kart.

The kid's face is doing something complicated. His mouth is pressed into a line. His shoulders are tight. He looks like he's trying very hard not to look disappointed.

Then Lando appears beside him.

Mark can't hear what Lando says. But he watches Lando's hand come up, watches it settle on Oscar's shoulder. A small gesture. Brief. But Oscar's whole body changes—the tension drains out of him, his shoulders drop, his face softens.

Lando says something else. Oscar nods. The disappointment is still there, but it's quieter now. Manageable.

Seb nudges Mark. Points.

"See?" Seb says. "I don't think it's as simple as a crush."

—

By Wednesday, something has shifted.

Mark notices it first during breakfast. Oscar is sitting at the cabin table—his cabin table now, the one he shares with Lando and ten other kids—and he's not scheming and plotting. He's just... eating. Talking. Laughing at something someone said.

Lando is next to him. Of course he is. They've been inseparable since the cabin reassignment, joined at the hip in a way that would be concerning if it weren't so clearly good for both of them.

"The hijinks have dropped significantly," Seb observes, sliding into the seat across from Mark. He's holding a cup of coffee and a look of genuine surprise.

"I've noticed."

"Not all the way to zero—"

"No."

"—but significantly."

Mark watches Oscar reach across Lando to grab the syrup. Lando swats his hand away. Oscar grins. Grabs it anyway. Lando rolls his eyes.

"That's... almost normal," Mark says.

"Almost."

Mark didn't expect Oscar Piastri to become a different person just because he's sharing a cabin with a quiet British kid. But the shape of the chaos has changed.

On Tuesday, Oscar convinced Lando to help him build a ramp out of scrap wood behind the equipment shed. The ramp was structurally unsound. The landing was poorly planned. Neither of them got hurt, but Mark had to have a conversation with them about "camp property" and "not destroying things."

On Wednesday, they were caught trying to time how fast they could run from the lake to the track. It wasn't malicious. It wasn't even particularly dangerous. It was just... two kids being kids. Running. Laughing. Competitive in a way that didn't seem to hurt anyone.

"They're doing mischief together now," Seb says, watching them from the observation deck. "Is that better or worse?"

Mark thinks about it. "Better," he decides. "Because Lando has a sense of self-preservation."

"He's ten."

"He's ten and he's never once climbed the advanced wall without a harness. That's more than I can say for the other one."

—

The camp's training program is Mark's pride and joy.

He spent years developing it—years of trial and error, of watching what worked and what didn't, of talking to coaches and mechanics and kids who just wanted to go fast. The system he's built balances theory and practice, structure and freedom, learning and fun.

Every morning starts with a track walk. The kids put on their racing shoes and walk the circuit, feeling the camber of the corners, noting the bumps and cracks, learning the track with their feet before they learn it with their wheels. Mark leads these walks himself, pointing out braking points and apexes, answering questions about tire grip and momentum.

After that, the workshop. This varies by day—some days it's about how the kart works, the engine and the chassis and the way power transfers to the ground. Other days it's about racing lines, about defending and overtaking, about the mental game of competition. Seb leads these sessions, his enthusiasm infectious, his knowledge bottomless.

And then, finally, the practice.

Hours of it. Generous, glorious hours of track time, enough for every kid to get comfortable, to push their limits, to learn what the kart can do and what they can do with it.

That's the selling point, really. That's why parents pay eight thousand dollars for four weeks of summer camp. Not for the cabins or the lake or the climbing wall. For the track time and the chance to let their kids drive, and drive, and drive some more, until the steering wheel becomes an extension of their hands and the asphalt becomes a second home.

Mark watches the practice sessions with genuine interest.

He's not just looking for speed. Speed is easy. Speed is obvious. He's looking for learning—for the moment when a kid tries something new, makes a mistake, and then tries again. For the moment when a corner that felt impossible on Monday becomes routine on Friday.

Lando is already there. Has been there, probably, since he was seven. His learning curve is less a curve and more a straight line—steady, consistent, always improving. He doesn't make the same mistake twice. He doesn't need to be told something more than once.

Oscar is different.

Oscar is learning in front of Mark's eyes, every session, every day. He's not smooth yet—his inputs are sharp, his braking too late, his acceleration too early. He fights the kart in a way that Lando never does.

The problem, Mark realizes, is that Oscar is comparing himself to the wrong person.

He watches Lando's lap times. Studies them. Tries to match them. But Lando has been karting since he was seven. Lando has championships. Meanwhile Oscar, Mark knows from the intake forms, is just getting started. A few months of track time. Some RC car experience. Raw talent and hunger and nothing else.

It's not a fair comparison.

Mark had told the parents about this, back at the beginning. During orientation, before the chaos started, he'd gathered them all in the lodge and explained: kids come to this camp with different experience levels. Some have been racing for years. Some are holding a steering wheel for the first time. There's no way to cheat that. No way to fast-forward through the learning.

The parents had nodded. Understood. Asked polite questions about safety and insurance and whether their children would be properly supervised.

The kids, of course, had not been in that room. They only see the lap times and their positions in the leaderboard. 

Oscar sees it every day.

By Thursday, Mark notices a shift in the way Oscar drives.

He's not just trying to be fast anymore. He's trying to be Lando. He's copying Lando's lines, Lando's braking points, Lando's way of holding the steering wheel. Some of it works. Some of it doesn't. The things that work for Lando—smooth, precise, almost delicate—don't always work for a kid who's still learning to feel the kart beneath him.

"He's watching him," Seb says, appearing beside Mark at the observation deck.

"Obsessively."

"Do you think that's healthy?"

Mark watches Oscar take turn three too fast, wash out wide, lose a second. Watches him clench his jaw. Watches him try again on the next lap.

"I don't know," Mark says. "But I don't think we can stop him."

Friday is qualifying day.

The track is buzzing with that particular energy—the kind that builds up over a week of practice, of learning, of waiting. The kids are nervous. The counselors are nervous. 

Mark stands at the observation deck, stopwatch in hand, watching the kids take their flying laps.

Lando is first. Of course he is. His lap is clean, fast, almost effortless. He crosses the line and Mark's stopwatch reads a time that would have been competitive in last year's final race.

Oscar goes out later. His first flying lap is messy—he brakes too late for turn one, loses momentum through the chicane, recovers but loses time. His second lap is better. His third is better still. He's learning, even now, even in the pressure of qualifying.

When the session ends, the grid is posted.

Lando on pole. Of course.

Oscar in P5.

Mark finds Oscar sitting on the edge of the track, legs dangling, helmet in his lap. His face is doing something complicated—the same expression Mark saw after the first practice session, the one that looks like disappointment trying very hard to look like nothing.

"P5 is good," Mark says, sitting down next to him.

Oscar doesn't look up. "It's not P1."

"No. But it's good. Especially for someone who's only been doing this for a few months."

Oscar's jaw tightens. "Lando's been doing it for years."

"You’re right," Mark says. "That doesn't make you slow. It makes him experienced."

"I want to be faster."

"I know."

"I want to beat him."

—

On Saturday, Mark stands at the observation deck, stopwatch in hand, watching the grid form up below. Seb is beside him, unusually quiet.

The lights go out.

Lando gets a good start—clean, precise, pulling ahead into turn one. Behind him, the field compresses, karts jostling for position, tires squealing against asphalt.

Oscar's start is messier. He's boxed in on both sides, nowhere to go, forced to lift off the throttle as the karts ahead of him fight for position. He loses a spot before the first corner, dropping to P6.

But he doesn't stay there.

Mark watches, stopwatch in hand, as Oscar begins to carve his way through the field.

It's not pretty. It's not smooth. It's insane—the kind of wheel-to-wheel racing that Mark wouldn't expect from a kid twice Oscar's age. He sends his kart up the inside of turn three, barely clearing the other driver's front wheel. He out-brakes himself into turn five, runs wide, recovers, and still manages to hold his position.

"He's going to crash," Seb says.

"He's not going to crash."

"He's going to crash."

Mark watches Oscar dive down the inside of turn seven, two wheels on the grass, and somehow—somehow—make the pass stick.

"He's not going to crash," Mark repeats. But his voice sounds less certain now.

By lap five, Oscar is P2.

The gap to Lando is just over a second. Not close enough to attack, but close enough to see. Close enough to want.

Mark watches Oscar's kart twitch through turn four—a small correction, almost imperceptible, but there. He's pushing. Over-driving. Trying to extract time from a kart that doesn't have any more to give.

Lap eight. The gap is half a second.

Oscar is closing. Mark can see it in the way his kart moves—more aggressively now, more urgent. He's taking risks that he wasn't taking five laps ago. Braking later. Accelerating earlier. Pushing the limits of what the kart can do and what he can do with it.

Lap nine. The gap is a tenth.

Lando defends into turn one—not aggressively, just closing the door before Oscar can even think about sending it. Oscar tries the outside into turn two. Lando holds his line. Oscar falls back.

But only for a moment.

"He's going to try again," Seb says.

"He's going to keep trying until the end of the race."

"That's not going to end well."

Mark doesn't answer. He's watching Oscar's hands. The way they move on the steering wheel. The way he's setting up for turn three, positioning his kart for a run down the straight.

Lap ten. The final lap of the race.

Lando leads into turn one. Oscar is right behind him, close enough to read the number on his bumper. They go through turn two side by side—Oscar on the inside, Lando on the outside—and Mark holds his breath.

Turn three is a right-hander. Tight. Dangerous for two karts running side by side.

Lando has the inside line. He's ahead. He has every right to defend.

But Oscar is still there. Still alongside. Still pushing.

And then—

Lando closes the door.

It's not dirty. It's not even particularly aggressive. It's just... defending. The kind of move that every driver makes when someone tries to overtake on the inside. He turns in, takes the apex, leaves Oscar nowhere to go.

But Oscar doesn't back out.

He tries to send it anyway. Tries to put his kart where there isn't room. His front wheel touches Lando's rear wheel. The contact is light—almost nothing—but at racing speeds, almost nothing is enough.

Lando's kart twitches. Oscar's kart twitches harder.

They spin.

Together. Tangled. A mess of karts and tires and dust sliding toward the gravel trap.

Mark is already moving before they stop.

By the time he reaches the track, Nico has already extracted both kids from their karts. They're standing by the side of the track, helmets off, faces flushed. Oscar has a scrape on his chin—blood beading up through the dust. Lando is holding his shoulder at an angle that suggests he's going to bruise.

"You're not seriously hurt," Nico is saying, his voice clipped, professional, German. "But you're going to the medic room. Both of you."

"It was his fault," Oscar says.

"It was his fault," Lando says at the same time.

They glare at each other.

Mark sighs. Deeply. From somewhere in his chest that holds all the regrets he's accumulated over five years of running this camp.

"Medic room," Mark says. "Now. Both of you."

The medic room is small, white, and smells like antiseptic. Nico is cleaning Oscar's chin with a practiced hand, muttering something about "reckless driving" and "parent phone calls." Lando is sitting on the cot across from Oscar, an ice pack pressed to his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

Mark stands in the doorway. Arms crossed. Waiting.

When Nico finishes and disappears into the supply closet, Mark steps into the room.

"What the hell were you two doing?"

Oscar and Lando both start talking at once.

"He slammed the door on me—"

"There wasn't a gap—"

"I was alongside—"

"You were barely overlapping—"

"There was room—"

"There wasn't—"

"Stop," Mark says. His voice is not loud. But it's firm. The kind of firm that comes from years of dealing with drivers who think they know better.

They stop.

Mark looks at Lando first. "You're defending. That's fine. That's racing. But slamming the door on a kid who's already alongside? That's not defending. That's blocking."

Lando's jaw tightens. "He wasn't alongside."

"I was right there—"

"Oscar." Mark's gaze shifts. "You sent it into a gap that didn't exist. You touched his wheel. You caused the crash."

Oscar's mouth opens. Closes.

"I expect you to race hard," Mark says. "I expect you to race fair. What I saw out there was not fair. Not from either of you."

"He wasn't being fair," Lando says quietly.

"There was a gap," Oscar says, his voice rising.

"Stop."

Mark's voice cuts through the room. He's not angry—not really. He's something else. Something that feels a lot like disappointment and a lot like understanding and a lot like the weight of knowing that these two kids are going to be the death of him.

"I need you two to make up," Mark says. "Because you're both out of the final race tomorrow. And you're going to have to start over next week."

The room goes very quiet.

Oscar stares at him. "What?"

"You're out. Both of you. The final race is for kids who can race without crashing into each other."

"But—"

"That's my decision. It's final."

Oscar's face does something complicated. Anger, maybe. Or frustration. Or something else entirely, something that Mark is still learning to recognize.

Lando just nods. He looks at the floor.

"And," Mark adds, because he has to, because it's his job, "I'm going to have to tell your parents about this. Both sets."

Something shifts in Oscar's expression.

"No."

Mark blinks. "Excuse me?"

"No, you can't—" Oscar's voice cracks. "Please. Don't tell them. Please."

Mark crouches down, bringing himself to Oscar's eye level. "Oscar. Your parents absolutely need to know if their son crashed a kart and scraped up his chin and shoulder. When they pick you up next week and see the scars, they're going to ask questions."

"It'll heal," Oscar says. His voice is high, desperate. "They won't notice. Please, Mark. Don't tell my mum. She can't know."

Mark tilts his head. Looks at this kid—this feral, chaotic, brilliant kid—who is suddenly on the edge of tears.

"Oscar," Mark says, as gently as he can, "I promised your parents I would let them know if anything happened. That's my job."

Oscar shakes his head. Vigorously. His eyes are wet now, tears spilling over despite his best efforts.

"Please," he says. "Please don't tell my mum. I promise I won't make those moves again. I promise I'll be careful. I just—I just want to race, okay? Please."

Mark's chest tightens.

"That's not—" Mark stops. Starts again. "Listen to me. I'm not saying you shouldn't make moves. What you did out there, the wheel-to-wheel stuff? That was good. That was really good. You just still have a lot to learn."

"Then let me learn," Oscar says. "But please don't tell my mum. She'll—"

"What if you tell them it's not his fault?"

Mark turns. Lando is still sitting on the cot, ice pack pressed to his shoulder. His face is calm. Steady. But there's something in his eyes—something that looks a lot like understanding.

"Lando—" Mark starts.

"Oscar didn't crash into me," Lando says. "I slammed the door on him. Deliberately. To stop him from overtaking. It's completely my fault."

Mark stares at him. "That's not true."

"It's true enough."

"It's not true at all."

Lando's jaw sets. The same stubbornness Mark has seen on the track, in the way he defends his position, the way he refuses to give an inch.

"Tell them I crashed into him," Lando says. "Tell them I made a mistake. Tell them whatever you want. Just don't tell them it was his fault."

"That's not—"

"It's my fault," Lando repeats. "I'll take the blame."

Oscar looks at Lando. His face is wet, his chin still bleeding, his expression somewhere between confusion and something else. Something Mark can't quite name.

"It's not your fault," Oscar says quietly.

"Doesn't matter," Lando says. "I'm offering."

—

Out of every adult in this camp, Mark knows better how it feels when a nine-year-old decides that they hate you.

It happens every now and then. Most kids bounce back quickly—a few hours of sulking, a missed activity, and they're over it. But some kids hold grudges. Some kids need someone to blame, and Mark, with his clipboard and his rules and his unfortunate position as the one who has to say no, makes an easy target.

He and Seb have an unspoken arrangement about this. Mark takes the bad cop role. Seb gets to be the good cop. It's not that Mark enjoys it—he doesn't, not really—but Seb physically cannot say no to these kids. He'd let them stay up until midnight and eat dessert for breakfast and drive the karts until the fuel ran out. Someone has to be the adult.

There's a difference, though, between being the kind of adult who says they can't get an extra hour of practice because they need to go back and shower, and being seen as the kind of adult who's definitely a fascist tyrant and quite possibly the devil himself, personally responsible for every injustice in the world.

Oscar has decided, with the full conviction of a nine-year-old who has been wronged, that Mark is the latter.

It starts the morning after the crash.

Mark is walking toward the dining hall for breakfast when Seb intercepts him, practically bouncing with the kind of energy that usually means he's about to say something annoying.

"Good news," Seb says.

"I doubt that."

"Oscar says you're a tyrant."

Mark keeps walking. "Good to know."

"He says this camp is corrupt."

"Excellent."

"He says when he's world champion, he's never coming back."

Mark pushes open the door to the dining hall. "Tell him I'll survive the heartbreak."

The sulking continues for days.

Oscar moves around the camp like a small, angry storm cloud. He eats breakfast with his cabin but doesn't talk. He participates in activities—Mark has to give him credit for that—but every interaction is accompanied by a look that clearly says I am only doing this because I have no choice.

He avoids Mark. Deliberately. When Mark enters a room, Oscar leaves. When Mark speaks during group sessions, Oscar looks away. It's so pointed that other kids have started noticing.

Seb, of course, is delighted.

He reports every new development with the enthusiasm of a man watching his favorite television drama.

"Oscar says you're the worst person he's ever met."

"I'm honored."

"He says you ruined his entire summer."

"You're enjoying this too much."

"I'm enjoying this exactly the right amount."

By the beginning of the final week, something shifts.

Mark notices it on Tuesday morning. Oscar is late to breakfast—unusual for him, even during the sulking period—and when Mark asks one of the counselors where he is, they say they saw him heading toward the lake.

Mark finds him there.

Oscar is sitting on a large flat rock near the water's edge, throwing pebbles into the lake. He's not skipping them—just throwing, hard and angry, watching them sink. His shoulders are tight. His jaw is set.

The frown forms instantly when he sees Mark approaching.

Mark hesitates. Part of him considers, briefly, whether Oscar is going to throw the pebbles at him. The kid has good aim—Mark has seen him in archery—and he's standing at a distance that would make it hard to dodge.

He sits down on the rock next to Oscar anyway.

The water is calm. The sun is warm. Somewhere across the lake, a bird is calling.

Mark waits.

Oscar throws another pebble. Harder this time.

"You're still mad at me," Mark says.

Oscar doesn't answer.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Another pebble. This one skips once before sinking.

Mark tries again. "You had a good session yesterday. The morning one. Forty-five minutes, and you were genuinely the fastest. Nico said so."

Oscar scoffs.

It's a reaction. Mark will take it.

"Your mum is coming this weekend," Mark says.

Oscar's hand stops mid-throw.

"She's flying in tomorrow. Your dad dropped you off, so she's doing pickup. I spoke to her last night."

Oscar's grip tightens around the pebble.

"I told her about the incident," Mark says.

Oscar's face crumples—just for a second, just a flicker—before he catches himself. His eyes are wet. He blinks rapidly, trying to hide it.

"I explained everything," Mark adds quickly. "That both you and Lando were responsible. That it was a racing incident. I don't think you're in trouble."

Oscar shakes his head. "No. You don't know that."

"Oscar—"

"You don't know anything."

Mark is quiet. The water laps against the rocks. Somewhere behind them, the camp is waking up—the sounds of breakfast, of kids laughing, of counselors calling out instructions.

"Oscar, you know that crashing in a race is very normal, right?" Mark says. "It's how you learn. Every driver crashes. Every single one."

Oscar looks up. His eyes are red. "My mum won't let me race ever again."

"That's not—"

"And it’s your fault."

Mark blinks. "What?"

"If she doesn't let me race again, it's your fault. You told her. You told her."

Mark stares at him. The accusation lands somewhere unexpected—not in his pride, but in his chest. The kid is serious. He genuinely believes that Mark has ruined everything.

"How on earth is it my fault, mate?" Mark asks. "I didn't crash the kart. I wasn't driving."

Oscar struggles. His mouth opens and closes, opens and closes. He's trying to find words, trying to articulate something that doesn't fit neatly into sentences.

"Because," Oscar says finally, "she's going to say she was right."

"Right about what?"

"That it's dangerous. That I'd get hurt. That she didn't want me to get hurt." Oscar's voice is shaking. "She's going to say I told you so and then she's going to make me stop."

Mark's gaze softens. He didn't expect this. He expected anger, yes. Blame, yes. But not this—not the fear underneath it, the desperate, aching fear of losing something before it's even begun.

"Oscar," Mark says carefully, "no parent wants their child to get hurt. That's not a your-mum thing. That's a parent thing."

"Yeah, but it's different with me."

"How?"

Oscar throws another pebble. Watches it sink. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet.

"I'm not like them. I have to show that I'm good enough. But I also can't crash, because if I crash then my mum will worry, and I don't want my mum to worry. So I have to be good enough to win, but not so good that I crash trying, but also not so bad that she thinks I'm wasting my time, and—" He stops. Takes a breath. "It's just hard."

Mark listens.

"I'm not like the other kids here," Oscar continues. "They all have parents who watch them race every weekend. Their parents are here, in the stands, cheering. My parents are far away. They have to take flights just to see me. And this weekend I'm going to go home and I don't know if I'll ever race again."

The words hang in the air. Mark doesn't know what to say.

"This wouldn't have happened," Oscar says, "if I was from here. Like everyone else. My mum wouldn't have to take long flights and make everything a whole thing. It's just unfair."

"You mean being Australian."

Oscar looks up. "Yeah. Obviously. Everyone else here got it easy."

Mark is quiet for a moment. The lake is still. The sun is higher now, warm on his shoulders.

"It's harder for us Australians," Mark says.

Oscar's expression shifts. Something flickers across his face—recognition, maybe. Or surprise.

"Wait," Oscar says. "You're Australian too."

Mark stares at him. "You forgot?"

"I didn't—I mean—I knew, but—" Oscar's cheeks flush. "I forgot."

"You forgot."

"I've been busy!"

Mark laughs. It's a short sound, surprised out of him. "I've been running this camp for five years. I've got an Australian flag on my office wall. I called you 'mate' about forty times in your first week."

Oscar's flush deepens. "I wasn't paying attention."

"Clearly."

They sit in silence for a moment. The tension hasn't disappeared, but it's shifted—softened, somehow, by the absurdity of the moment.

"You're not wrong, you know," Mark says. "It's harder. Being from somewhere far away. Having parents who don't live and breathe this sport. Having to prove yourself twice as much, just to be seen as half as good."

Oscar is listening now. 

"But here's the thing," Mark says. "If you love racing—really love it—you find a way. You put in the work. You take the crashes and the losses and the people who don't believe in you, and you keep going. Because it's worth it."

Oscar's eyes are wet again, but he's not crying. 

"How do you know?" Oscar asks.

Mark thinks about his own career. The years of fighting. The people who told him he wasn't good enough. The wins and the losses and the long, lonely drives home.

"Because I did it," Mark says. "And it was worth it."

—

The final race of the summer is a good one.

Mark stands at the observation deck, Seb beside him, watching the grid form up below. The sun is warm. The track is dry. Forty-seven parents line the fencing, cameras ready, faces bright with anticipation.

Lando is on pole. His kart is pointed straight, his hands steady on the wheel. He looks calm, focused and ready.

Oscar is P2. Right behind him. Shoulder to shoulder on the grid.

Four weeks ago, Oscar arrived at this camp as a chaos agent—a nine-year-old Australian who broke karts and climbed walls and caused counselors to cry. Now he's here, on the front row, helmet on, visor down, hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

Mark watches him take a breath. Watches his shoulders rise and fall.

"He's nervous," Seb says.

"He's excited," Mark says. 

The lights go out.

Lando gets a good start—clean, fast, pulling ahead into turn one. But Oscar is right with him, tucked into his slipstream, refusing to let go.

They race.

Lap after lap, they trade positions. Lando leads into turn one. Oscar fights back on the exit. Lando defends the inside. Oscar tries the outside. They're side by side through corners that shouldn't allow side-by-side racing, inches apart, wheels almost touching.

The parents gasp. The counselors cheer. Nico paces the pit lane like a man watching his children play with fire.

"They're going to crash again," Seb says.

"No," Mark says. "They've learned."

He's right. Every move is hard but fair. Every defense is firm but legal. They're racing like they've been doing this for years—like they trust each other, even in the moments when trust seems impossible.

Oscar leads for one lap. Lap seven of twelve. He dives up the inside into turn three, holds his nerve, and comes out ahead. The parents erupt. Somewhere in the crowd, someone screams.

Mark looks toward the fence.

Nicole Piastri is standing there.

She's not sitting. She's not filming. She's on her feet, hands gripping the fence, eyes fixed on her son's kart. Her mouth is open. She's cheering.

Come on, Oscar. Come on.

Mark watches her. He didn't expect this. He expected a mother picking up her child after a few weeks apart—distracted, tired, ready to go home. He didn't expect a mother who looks like she's watching something miraculous.

Oscar leads for one lap.

Then Lando fights back. A clean overtake into turn one. A defensive line through the chicane. The lead changes again.

They cross the line side by side on the final lap. Lando ahead by a nose. Oscar behind by less.

The checkered flag drops.

Lando wins.

Oscar climbs out of his kart slowly. His helmet is off. His face is red—from exertion, from disappointment, from the sun. He looks at the ground. His shoulders slump.

Then Nicole is there.

She pushes through the crowd, through the parents and the counselors and the kids who are already congratulating Lando. She reaches Oscar before anyone else can.

Mark watches from the observation deck. He can't hear what she says—the crowd is too loud, the engines still winding down—but he sees her arms go around her son. Sees Oscar's face press into her shoulder. Sees her hand on the back of his head, holding him close.

Oscar pulls back. Says something. Nicole shakes her head. Says something back. Her hands are on his shoulders now, steadying him.

She's not consoling him for losing. She's telling him he did something remarkable.

Mark watches Oscar's face change. The tension drains out of him. The fear, the desperation, the hunger—all of it, softening. 

Nicole points at the track. Says something. Oscar follows her gaze. She's pointing at turn three—the corner where he made his overtake, the one that got the crowd on their feet.

She's telling him that was her favorite part.

Lando walks over. His helmet is off too, his curly hair a mess, his face flushed with victory. He stops in front of Oscar and holds out his hand.

Oscar looks at it. Looks at Lando. Then he shakes it.

They're too young for this gesture to mean what it would mean between adults. But Mark watches them—two kids, one winner and one runner-up, standing on the edge of a track in the middle of nowhere—and thinks: They're going to remember this.