“Terry! Man, bro, don’t!” yelled Dustin.
“Holy shit, Dustin,” said Terry. “I hasn’t started. Haven’t. We aren’t going.”
The track was lined up. It had cost them forty dollars to get all this vintage Hot Wheels track, and more than once Terry had wondered if there wasn’t a better way to spend three days, but Dustin would have none of it. It spiraled throughout the house, through their rooms, over tables, up two floors and down once more. It rested on piles of textbooks, bricks, even a backpack half filled with peyote (they were going to need to move that eventually but it’s not like they were touching that thing ever again, not since last weekend). Dustin, a physics grad, had calculated exactly the forces of each jump, turn and loop that their car (the near perfect facsimile of a second generation Mustang in yellow) would experience. They’d been testing individual pieces for the past 18 hours.
Now they just needed to let go.
Dustin had a mania in his eye, and Terry, debilitated as he was, could still tell that things weren’t headed for the best outcome. There was no way this would work the first time. Problem was, when Dustin was this far into his syringe, he began to lose his patience.
Dustin held the car at the top of the track. His jaw was clenched, his pupils dilated.
“Dustin?” Terry voiced aloud.
“Quiet,” he hissed.
“Dustin,” Terry persisted. “Do you ever wonder if all this isn’t just a bit ridiculous?”