1977

The racecars kick red dirt, spinning the world into sepia. She plays in the hidden house beneath the bleachers; the muted roar of the race vibrates the tiny house made for tiny wooden people. The flags drop and she crosses the track, red dirt clings to her feet like chalky, dry wine. Cars blur with gasoline’s sweet tang. She spots the red one like a pirouette and prays for Orion to emerge from the dust and the whine of the race to be replaced by the cicada’s song.