At some point I realized I didn’t want to reflect on Nitro anymore, on his meaningless death, I didn’t want to be sad or feel despair, and I ended up thinking about my sister, Camille. She was a year younger than me and still living in Vegas, a dancer in a show playing in the Broadway Theater at the Stratosphere Hotel and Casino. I saw the show once. It was a matinee, filled with dancing, music, and comedy. The dancing was great, the comedy not so much, with most of it being raunchy. I remember the singer though. She was pretty and a capable performer. I met her backstage. I’d been chatting with Camille when the singer—I think her name was Joan—came down the corridor carrying a bouquet of flowers, presumably given to her by an adoring member of the audience. Camille introduced us, saying, “Joan, this is my brother, Jack. He’s a NASCAR driver.” It always embarrassed me when she introduced me with not only my name but profession. After all, you didn’t say, “This is Steve, he’s a waiter over at The Olive Garden,” or, “This is Joe, he’s a dentist.” Anyway, Camille was proud of me, I guess, and I was proud of her (and come to think of it, I do believe I’ve introduced her, saying, “This is Camille, she’s a performer in a Vegas show”).

I missed Camille. The last we saw each other was in Florida. She and my parents flew there to visit me in the hospital after the accident. They remained for a few days, leaving only when I assured them I was one hundred percent okay.

In hindsight, I wish I’d made more effort to see them over the years.

I’ll be seeing them all shortly, I told myself. Once I’m back in Polanco, I’ll arrange movers to transport my stuff, pay off whatever remained on the house lease, pack what I need into the Porsche, and drive north for the border. It was about a thirty-hour drive from Mexico City to Vegas. I’d split it up over a few days. I liked long road trips. Pulling over whenever you pleased, wherever you pleased, checking into random motels, trying local food, starting out again first thing in the morning with a hot coffee and some tunes on the radio. All this reminded me of the first two or three years I’d been with Pita, when we would cruise the interstates from race to race together, free as birds, our biggest concern the distance to the next rest stop when we were busting to use the toilet.