engines still echoed in the hills of East Bend long after the dust had settled on the little motocross track nestled behind the ridge. The banners that once flapped triumphantly in the wind now sagged in the quiet of a solemn sunset, and silence had taken over where laughter and cheering had lived just days before.
Fourteen-year-old Mason Callahan had been the youngest rider to enter the regional qualifiers, a boy whose grit outpaced his years. Everyone in East Bend knew Mason — not just for the way he rode, like a streak of lightning across the dirt, but for how he smiled, as if he were in on some beautiful secret the rest of the world hadn’t caught up to yet.
His father, Troy Callahan, had been a racer once too, before he hung up his helmet and took up the role of coach, mechanic, and number-one fan. The two were inseparable: early morning rides, weekend road trips, post-race ice cream even on losses — though Mason didn’t lose often.
That Saturday morning, the air was thick with heat and the smell of fuel. Mason stood beside his bike, number 14 painted bold on its side. His mother, Danielle, had tied his hair back and kissed his forehead like she always did, muttering prayers only a mother could say aloud. It was his third and final heat — the one that would qualify him for nationals.
He was flying through the course, spectators screaming his name as he took the final jump. Then came the silence. A hiccup of a moment. A miscalcula
