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the track. Thousands and thousands of people in the stands stood. Their yelling and screaming matched the roar of the Chevy.
    â€œI’m a little worried about her.” With the noise level up, Tim had to shout again. “She’s got the car as loose as possible.”
    â€œLoose?”
    â€œShe wants maximum speed. She had the pit crew set the weight and tires and spoiler to hold the road as lightly as possible. She doesn’t want anything holding her back. But that makes the car tougher to handle.”
    I was listening to Tim, but my eyes were following the red Chevy. As Sandy came out of the third turn, the car’s back end started to slide. I expected her to steer into the skid to straighten her line.
    But the slide got worse. The back end spun around and took her backward into the concrete wall.
    Bang!
    The car bounced off the wall and spun around so fast I couldn’t count how many times it turned.
    One tire came off the rear and seemed to bounce lazily across the track.
    It was headed right toward us.
    I didn’t move because it didn’t seem like a big deal. It didn’t look like it was coming very fast. Then, before I knew it, the tire nearly hit us. It flew past us onto the infield and slammed into a motor home behind us.
    Bang! It rocked the motor home, then settled to rest below the dent it had made.
    â€œUm, wow,” I said. I really wished I’d had the handheld camera. “That would have been awesome for the documentary.”
    â€œWow?” Tim said. “That tire could have killed us! I feel like I’ve been shot at and missed. Sandy just blew a qualifying run. And all you can say is ‘That would have been awesome for the documentary’? You must have ice in your veins.”
    â€œThanks,” I said. Directors aren’t supposed to care about their subjects. They are just supposed to observe.
    Out on the track, I saw Sandy pulling herself from the damaged car.
    I was glad to see that she was okay. It would have been terrible if she had gotten hurt. Uncle Mike couldn’t afford to lose more time.

chapter eight
    Let me tell you what’s gone wrong now,” Uncle Mike said. He sat in a chair across the hotel room from me.
    It was eight o’clock. Between us sat a tray full of dirty dinner dishes left from our room-service meal. Who needed a mother to cook, I always said, when all you had to do was pick up the telephone and call downstairs.
    â€œI hope it’s not a lot,” I said. I really wanted to see my name on the screen.
    â€œSince Sandy didn’t qualify, we’ll have to wait an entire week to get any footage of her on the track.”
    He leaned back in his chair and sighed. He rubbed his face with both hands. He sighed again.
    â€œWe can at least do interviews with some of the crew during the week, right?” I asked. “I mean, at least we’ll be getting some work done while we wait.”
    â€œI suppose,” Uncle Mike agreed. One of the great things about being his nephew was that I could be in on a lot of his brainstorming sessions. And Uncle Mike never minded listening to my ideas. “But part of what’s going to make this documentary so great is tying in all the interviews to actual races. At best, all we’re going to get is some background material. And meanwhile, the clock will be ticking on my deadline.”
    More face rubbing. “Not only that, but it looks like there are some problems with the footage we did in San Diego.”
    â€œThe deodorant commercial?”
    â€œThat one,” he groaned. I could tell he was thinking about the disaster with the mice. “You know how we spent all that extra time on retakes?”
    I nodded.
    â€œSomehow,” he said, “a lot of that footage was out of focus. I might have to fly back to Los Angeles this week and spend a few days doing some emergency work to pull it together.”
    â€œOut of focus? Which