The backpack was stuffed with alien contents to its innards. Food, maps, weather resilient clothing; anything that wouldn't slow her down was tossed into the dark backpack. Wendy Corduroy ignored the stretching fabric tightly sewn by the zippers. She swiped her hand and the metal closed with a trademark zip.

Leaving the derelict kitchen, she stalled herself. The Corduroy family had always lived in this house. There was nothing else to it. It had been here since her grandfather's days, and she could always imagine growing old here herself. Now that hollow dream was just a reminder of what she had lost.

Her brothers had moved to her uncles since her father's death. Being old enough to claim the need for personal space came with an advantage. She could pack viciously and as angrily as she wanted. Ventilation would be needed for every second she remained in this building. Reminding her of what she was about to leave behind forever.

Next to the backpack was her axe. Her belt along her jeans was loose enough for it to slide inside, and she slipped onto the hatchet a sleeve for the blade face, ensuring at least she wouldn't accidentally chop off a hand or finger any time soon.

Wendy couldn't consider a normal life from this point on. She needed something else. Her mother had died when she was very young. Her father passed away not a week ago, before her eyes and on the ground right before her. She could almost feel his ghost walking the hallway to the bathroom, where he would have most likely broken each and every thing inside. It almost made her laugh, but her throat closed shut and she clutched the wooden table in the center room.

"Get out," she told herself, "let's go."

Sliding the backpack to her side from the table, she turned and made her way towards the garage. A jacket she rarely used had been fished out of storage, proudly hanging on the closest tab by the door. Swiping it over her shoulder she kicked the door open.

The garage in her soon to be ex-home held on last thing for her. A gift for her that she had to wait until eighteen. From her mother.

But that was before; when she had someone to tell her it wasn't time yet.

Now there was no one.

A large object laid under a heavy brown stained sheet. With a disconcerting grunt, she yanked it over and revealed the beauty waiting inside.

Her mother's motorcycle.

Polished black and maintained by her and her brothers over the years, her father had always intended it to be a parting gift when she left home for good. He wasn't technically wrong. She wouldn't be going to her uncles after all. Nothing related to her would ever give her a feeling of peace. She needed the solitude. To be alone.

Giving it a quick stroke with her hand, she felt the leather seats. It was a danger calling to her. Motorcycles were, of course, entirely noted for being exceptionally dangerous. Not only that, she wasn't even legally supposed to be on the streets. Not finished with high school and being on a bike meant easy pickings for cops. Somehow that didn't even phase her.

She smirked as she stepped over, saddling up in the wonderful leather cushion waiting for her. Her jacket was pulled over her arms and laid to rest atop her shoulders. Backpack roped around her arms as well. There was only one last thing to do.

She hit the switch for the garage door. It had a fifteen second window before closing, but there was no need to wait that long. The moment the engine roared to life, blasting the trembling laughter of flame and fuel into the concrete floors, Wendy got the bike rumbling, and she drove under the door by inches.

The road awaited her. She found herself at the end of the driveway.

Then a compelling feeling washed over her.

There was a longing in her, something of a self pitying mood that had her stop and turn, looking at her house. Giving the house the look she thought it deserved didn't help. She felt like she was abandoning someone.

Certainly her family, that was a given. She didn't want to associate with them, however. There was something else in her mind she thought she was missing. Her friends she had slipped to a quick note saying how she was leaving, but hadn't told them as to how or when.

She understood it. There was another building out there full of people she considered family.

Five minutes of riding through town with little self-concern, Wendy found herself slowing by the Mystery Shack. It was later in the day, and she felt the heat of the dying sunlight strike her neck and back. Seeing the Mystery Shack one last time was tough.

She almost preferred the emptiness inside. At least there wasn't the pain of leaving people behind who looked up to you.

"We're closed!" a voice shouted from the screen door by the entrance. Wendy still stepped off her bike, as the door open and Grunkle Stan emerged, nearly shocking Wendy with his expression. Apologetic. "Hey, kiddo."

"I'm going," Wendy told him bluntly.

"Figured that much," Grunkle Stan nodded to the bike, "can't say I blame you. You have a strategy?"

"None at all."

"Fine by me. Job lined up?"

"Ha," Wendy shook her head, remembering that she would have to shake her love for lethargy, "no idea. Maybe I'll get into competitive wrestling. Or a stuntwoman. Daredevil? Is that a job anymore?" she asked him with a moments thought.

"Sure. It's called being an honest politician- HA!" Stan joked with her. Wendy offered an attempted smile, but Stan read her forced reply loud and clear and cut the bull. "Well...Want to say bye?"

"What?" Wendy asked, remembering her reason for being here. "Ah... yeah. Just before I go."

"Come inside," he waved her closer, putting a hand to her shoulder as he lead her to the door, "nice bike, by the way."

"It was my moms. Been in the house forever," Wendy told him.

"Ah. At least you can leave in style," Stan grinned to her as they walked in. He sounded as if he could understand the need to own something important at a time like this. Soos awaited them, and as he turned to address Stan, his eyes met Wendy's. Wendy couldn't have hoped to count the milliseconds it took for his eyes to water as he approached her.

"Oh Mister Pines! You were right!" Soos sniffled as he ran to Wendy and gave her a hug, "she is going!"

"Yeah, yeah, and she's doing a better job about being a man about it than you," Stan pried the crying handyman off Wendy, "she's just letting us know before she's a ghost."

"Aw, dude," Soos wiped his face with his arm, smearing tears across his cheeks, "Wendy, going to miss you."

"Me too, Soos," Wendy smiled back, easier to do than she had expected.

The rumbling sound could have been thunder striking the stairs in the distance. Yet no, a red-faced Mabel Pines pelted out from the stairs, bloodshot eyes and dripping nose as she ran full force at Wendy, sobbing the entire time.

"Gosh Stan," Wendy groaned as Mabel impacted her stomach, "did you tell everyone I was leaving before I knew I was leaving!?"

"I didn't tell anyone but Soos," Stan said with confidence.

"W-w-we heard y-you come in," Mabel stammered, rubbing her head into Wendy's shirt, "a-a-and we're s-so sad about EVERYTHING!"

Wendy looked to the ceiling. She didn't need this. She didn't want to deal with the weight of someone else's grief tied with her own. Her eyes dared to feel watering, and she threatened them, upon pain and suffering, to not drop a single tear. She had cried enough already.

"I know," Wendy managed, doing her best to maintain calm as she lowered herself to kneel at Mabel, "I just want you to know, I'm going to remember you guys, okay?" Mabel took the words as he cue to again hug Wendy, and the redhead returned the favor, wrapping her arms around the girl who wore her heart on her sleeve.

"Dipper?"

Wendy heard the footsteps pass by her as she opened her eyes. Turning around from Mabel's hug, a young boy hung his head and walked outside. Invitation was not needed for her. Dipper didn't want to speak with her, but Wendy knew better. This would be more than likely their last time speaking to one another. It was now or never.

"Well, I'm off," Wendy said to the others, standing up and giving Mabel a caring pat on the shoulders. "You all keep being you."

She turned and headed out the door. He was no where to be seen outside, but all she had to do was slightly turn her gaze to the left and spot the couch left outside. There he was, faced away from her, his legs tightly tucked around his arms.

"Hey Dipper," she said after a second. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

There was no response. He shifted a little, looking into the couch more.

"I don't blame you," Wendy managed to tell him, "for any of it. How could you have known anything about what was going to happen?"

He shrugged. She heard a tiny struggle for air. Wendy wouldn't hold back any more. Several strides closer, she walked past him and finally looked down to him. His face was covered in tears. He almost looked like more of a mess than his sister- at least she ran with heartbroken well. Dipper's features all seemed worn and his eyes were even darker and more tired than they had been ever before. Wendy sat in front of him, stricken by this.

He looked like she felt.

"It's my fault," Dipper admitted.

"No it's not."

"I just wanted... a chance, you know? Show you guys something cool," Dipper explained desperately, moving away from his feet and pushing himself closer to her.

"I know."

"But look what I did!" he exclaimed. "I... Wendy, I totally ruined my life."

Wendy Corduroys brain begged she agree. She was hurt in more ways than a little crying boy could possibly hope to fix. He deserved every single bit of that pain, and then more so for making that choice. The choice that killed her father.

Her heart demanded she remind him of something else.

"You also saved my soul."

Dipper blinked, and sighed, his held aloft hands falling to his sides. His eyes looked to the bike, and he found a new topic.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I don't know. As long as I find a way to feel better than the way I do now, I think I'll manage," Wendy said honestly. Dipper sniffled again.

"I... god," Dipper clawed at his eyes, "this is just... I screwed everything so badly up I can't even think..."

"Dipper," Wendy turned to him, "dude... I wont lie. You did. But you know? If you hadn't stepped in that one time, who knows what could have happened to me. You saved me. In the end, that's what counts."

"Is it?" He turned to look at her. Their eyes met.

Wendy saw the desperation within those hurt, youthful brown eyes. He was so terribly torn between feelings he wanted to explain, words he had to get off his chest, and apologies he must confess. Yet it was his pain that consoled her. He would not reason to be told to feel better, and she wouldn't try any further.

"I guess I'll never see you again," Dipper admitted as he broke eye contact.

"You never know," Wendy argued.

"You're not probably going to be even using your real name," Dipper sighed sadly.

"Maybe. I kinda always wanted a different name. Maybe, like. . . like Roxanne Simpson or Naomi Kale, or something. Though I always liked the last name Blaze. Sounds like some awesome badass or something. Jenny Blaze, maybe. Why do you ask? Ya gonna to come looking for me?" Wendy nudged him with her elbow.

"No... I just would like to know if you're safe."

Wendy repressed a small chuckle. Goddamn it, if this situation hadn't been surrounded by death and gloom and the two of them smack in the middle of it all, that would have been an adorable thing for him to say. But to hell with it all- it was anyway.

"Wendy," Dipper started, a new voice rising in him, "I just wanted to say... I- uh, you know... I'll never forget you."

A crack of warmth spread into her battered and bruised heart. It was just enough for her to remember that there was good in the world, and a huge amount of that goodness was sitting right next to her on the couch.

What the hell, spark of the moment.

She lifted his chin in a quick motion and kissed him.

It was just a quick peck on the lips, but it entirely stunned the twelve year old. She could feel some of the wet of his lips, already so soft now glistening with tears. His body seized up and he stared to her. A grin, a real healthy grin formed on her face. The first one in days. His cheeks flushed as his eyes widened as he realized what he had just gotten.

"Well, now I know you won't forget me," Wendy smiled and poked his forehead, prodding the unforgettable birthmark in his skin the shape of a constellation.

"W-Wendy-"

"Just stay safe and keep your sister with you," Wendy told him as she rose from the seat. The cushion inflated to her departure, and Dipper watcher her like he was dreaming. She was briskly walking to her bike.

"You know, maybe Grunkle Stan could have you stay around?" Dipper asked, leaping off the couch and following her to the motorcycle.

"It's true," the voice of the older man added as he stepped out, "you'd be working for half your pay, but I can keep you around."

"Thanks guys, "she shook her head with confidence, "but this town isn't a place I want to be around anymore."

"But what can you do out there! You're just fifteen and-" Dipper started.

"Dipper, let the woman go already," Grunkle Stan barked, catching the boy off guard, "she's made a choice. Let her have it."

Wendy hopped onto the bike and again turned on the engines. The glorious sounds of a bestial power under her told her she could leave. There was one more look between her and Dipper. He was begging for her to stay. Maybe she shouldn't have kissed him. Then again, as much as an optimist she was, the real chances of seeing him again was slim. He did need something to remember her by. This would be it.

"So long, guys."

The bike spun and she found the glaring sun in her eyes. She wondered to herself if, she had the chance and gas money to do so, if she could have rode into the sun and vanished forever. Be eaten up by the giant ball of burning gasses and plasmas. It would be memorable, cool as hell, and entirely end her pain. As she turned out from the driveway, Wendy remembered something she and Stan had joked.

"Daredevil," she muttered to herself.

The town of Gravity Falls was now behind her and she nodded to herself. The decision was made.

"I can do that."

10 years later

Haunted eyes stared through the face shield of a sturdy crash helmet. The tinted plastic visor reflected a sea of spectators packed into the bleachers surround ing the El Paso motor speedway. Floodlights lit up the infield area in the middle of the oval racetrack. The bright lights overpowered the starry night sky over head, not that anyone was looking up. Thousands of eager fans awaited the appearance of their idol. Concessions workers trotted up and down the steps of the bleachers, hawking cold drinks, Popsicles, and snacks. Fat cats and celebrities lounged in air-conditioned comfort in reserved luxury boxes, while regular folks and their kids crowded the cheap seats. Camera crews stood ready to record the event for the cable sports channels. Anticipation filled the air as the moment of truth drew near. Rising to their feet, the audience chanted in unison.

"CORDUROY! CORDUROY! CORDUROY!"

For a moment, Wendy was transported back to her carefree days. Before the stranger . . . and the Accident. Now in twenty five, Wendy per formed in larger venues these days. A white synthetic riding suit fit snugly onto her lean, physique. Crimson flames were emblazoned onto the suit and matching helmet. The Plexiglas visor hid the emptiness in her eyes.

She sat astride a throbbing XR-750. Painted flames embellished the sport bike's pristine white finish and shining chrome. Her gloved hands gripped the handle bars as she contemplated the jump before her. Thirty-five hard-body trucks were lined up side-by-side between the take-off ramp in front of her and the landing ramp on the opposite side of the track. All in all, she was looking at a jump of over fifty yards with nothing but several tons of heavy metal to cushion her fall if she came up short.

In other words, the usual.

Time to give the folks a show, she thought. She pumped her fist in a move that was now copied by hero-worshiping school kids all across the country. Right on cue, the row of trucks burst into flame. Fiery orange tendrils reached for the sky, throwing off so much heat that Wendy could feel the warmth all the way through her protective garments. High-decibel southern rock cranked from the speedway's blaring public address sys tem. Over thirty thousand screaming spectators roared in approval. The warm summer night smelled of gasoline and adrenaline.

Wendy cracked the throttle and the 750 accelerated up the ramp at breakneck speed. She waited until the very last second before tapping the nitrous oxide but ton to give the bike the extra boost it needed to take off into the air above the burning trucks. A battery of flashbulbs went off in the stands. The crowd was on its feet. . . .

High above the artificial inferno, time seemed to stand still for Wendy as she and the bike arced across the sky. Her eyes closed and a rare look of serenity came over her face. Moments like this, when the line between life and death was as thin as a narrow strip of speeding rubber, were the only times she ever felt truly free.

Not even the stranger could touch her now.

Too soon, however, the soaring bike began its de scent. Wendy opened her eyes and realized at once that she given the engine a little too much nitrous. The bike was flying too far, so that she was going to overshoot the landing ramp by several yards. A collective gasp came from the audience as they reached the same horrifying conclusion. Nothing but solid blacktop awaited the diving bike and its rider.

Looks like I'm in for a nasty spill, thought Wendy, oddly unafraid. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself for impact as she passed over the landing ramp, only seconds before the sport bike crashed nose-first into the asphalt. Fireworks, preset for the finale, ignited on both sides of the ramp, throwing geysers of white sparks into the air. The force of the landing threw her from the saddle. She tumbled across the speedway into the concrete retaining wall protecting the audience from the racetrack. Her helmet's heavy-duty face shield shattered like glass. Wendy yelped in pain, her outburst drowned out by the terrified screams of the spectators. Her entire body slammed against the concrete. She slid onto the ground, lying flat upon her back.

"Wendy!"

Her chief mechanic was first on the scene. Tambry DiCiccio came running across the speedway, breathing heavily. A tall, tan, slender woman about Wendy's age and height, with a long, huge single purple highlight in the front bang of her brown hair and wearing an oil-stained T-shirt and jeans, stared wide-eyed at her friends body. Her face had gone white with fear. For all she knew, her best friend wouldn't be getting up again.

Ever.

Tambry dropped to knees in front of Wendy. Trembling fingers hurriedly pried Wendy crash helmet away from her skull, exposing a mop of untidy long, red hair. If the injured rider was aware of her friend's presence, she gave no sign of it. Wendy's chin drooped onto her chest. Only the whites of her eyes were visible.

"C'mon, Wendy," Tambry pleaded. She patted Wendy's cheeks, trying to get a response. "Talk to me ..."

Wendy heard Tambry's voice coming from what seemed as if very far away. The distraught gear head sounded as if she was rapidly running out of hope. Floating in darkness, barely feeling her injuries, Wendy felt herself slipping away . . . until another voice surfaced from her memory.

You're no good to me dead.

The welcoming darkness receded as her aching flesh and bones called her back to the mortal world. Wendy's eyes rolled forward. She blinked and looked around.

"Is the bike okay?" she asked.

Tambry let out an enormous sigh of relief. She wiped the cold sweat from her brow. "She's fine," she called out to the rest of Wendy's stunt team as the men caught up to them by the retaining wall. An ambulance raced to ward them, its flashing lights and siren going full tilt. Tambry grabbed a first-aid kit from one of the newcomers.

Her buddy wanted to start patching her up right there, but Wendy figured she owed the crowd a better finale than that. "Give me a lift," she instructed her men, over Tambry's useless protests. Wendy winced as the crew helped her to her feet; her ribs felt badly bruised. She waved at the audience, reassuring them that she was all right. A thunderous cheer erupted from the bleachers. Wendy briefly wondered how many of the spectators thought that the crash was all part of the act.

Applause followed her across the speedway as she made her way toward the teams tour bus parked right outside. Every step sent another jolt of agony through her aching ribs, but all her working parts still worked. Tambry kept shaking her head, like she couldn't believe that Wendy was actually walking away from a fall like that. Wendy just hoped that someone was looking after her bike.

Looks like I live to jump another day. For whatever that's worth.

As they left the speedway, her men had to clear a path through a frenzied throng of fans, groupies, and autograph seekers. The excited horde crowded the stunt team on both sides, jostling each other in their eagerness to catch a glimpse of the world-famous Wendy Corduroy. "Wendy! Over here, Wendy!" they shouted at her, trying to get her attention. "Remember me, Wendy?" Posters, magazine covers, and publicity photos were thrust at her, but Wendy hurt too much to sign anything right now. Brazen men - and even a few women - called out their phone numbers, or tried to slip a note to het body guards. A young boy bore a superficial resemblance to Dipper, as he'd looked so many years ago, and a familiar pang stabbed at her heart. She hadn't laid eyes on the real Dipper since the day she left Gravity Falls.. ..

A TV news crew elbowed their way through the fans to meet Wendy right in front of the bus. A logo on the camera identified the crew as belonging to ESPN2. The reporter, whose name Wendy couldn't recall, stepped forward.

"Wendy, you gave us quite a scare." He shoved a microphone in Wendy's face. "What happened out there tonight?"

Wendy walked past him without a word.

The tour bus rolled down the moonlit highway. A trademarked flaming banner adorned both sides of the deluxe land cruiser. Vanity plates read BLAZIN'-1. Mesquite and yucca sprouted alongside the road, which stretched across hundreds of miles of inhospitable desert. Sparse vegetation rarely grew higher than a man's waist around these parts. Prickly pear cacti and tumbleweeds dotted the barren wasteland. A Texas-shaped road sign was posted along the highway. drive safely, the sign exhorted, the texas way.

Inside the bus, the crew passed the time on the way to the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex. Most of men played poker around a long table, laughing over cigarettes, nachos, and longneck beers. Playing cards were slapped onto the table, to be greeted by muttered curses and triumphant chuckles. Plastic chips clattered as they passed from one cardplayer to another. ZZ Top blared from the bus's sound system. Tobacco fumes and dirty jokes filled the air. A television set, the audio muted, was mounted above an open doorway. Coverage of this year's X-Games flickered upon the screen. Freestyle BMXers flipped their bicycles backwards and forwards in the air. Others performed outrageous stunts on ramps and trails.

The crew cheered the best cyclists on.

A few yards back from hilarity, Tambry and Wendy shared a booth at the rear of the cabin. A martini glass full of jelly beans-Wendy's only vice-rested on the table between them. The mechanic's eyes were glued to the screen of her handheld PlayStation Portable, where a computer-generated facsimile of Wendy's was attempt-ing to recreate one of the real Wendy's most spectacular jumps: a double rollover launched from a curved fiberglass ramp. Tambry's fingers and thumbs feverishly worked the console's controls, but not smoothly enough. The CG rider missed the landing ramp by a mile, crashing upside-down onto the pavement in an explosion of fiery red pixels. An unnervingly realistic-sounding crash came from the PSP's sound chip, followed by an urgent voice that Tambry was rapidly coming to hate:

"And Corduroy is down!"

So what else is new? Tambry silently groused. The game, a complimentary copy of Corduroy Airtime! had been kicking her butt for the last one hundred miles or so. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't get past level one. Who designed this stupid game? The Devil himself?

She looked across the booth at the real Wendy Corduroy, who was engrossed in a paperback copy of Zane Grey's Riders of the Purple Sage. On the cover of the book, a lone rider galloped a spotted Appaloosa across a windswept prairie. The dog-eared paperback showed signs of heavy wear; Wendy had a weakness for classic westerns.

"This game is impossible," Tambry complained.

Wendy glanced up from her book. A her trademark trapper cap rested upon her head. She shrugged once, then turned another page. Apparently settlers and range riders in 1870s Utah were more compelling than her best friend's mortal combat with the fiendish computer game.

Tambry hit replay. On the game screen, the CG Wendy gunned her engine and sped toward the take-off ramp. Tambry stared at the screen intently, the glow from the console lighting up her face. She struggled with the virtual clutch and throttle, trying to keep the miniature cycle on track. This time she triggered the Launch command a few seconds later, only to find herself over shooting the landing ramp-just as Wendy had done for real. Another electronic crash sounded from the PSP. The CG Wendy tumbled headlong over the handlebars before smacking into the pavement.

"Oh!" the invisible narrator exclaimed. "That one's gotta hurt!"

The audio mayhem pulled Wendy out of her book. She arched an eyebrow and smirked, a low chuckle escaped her. "Have you tried not crashing?" she asked.

"Have you?" Tambry shot back.

Before Wendy could return to her paperback, ZZ Top fell silent as somebody switched the TV off mute. Tambry looked up to see a color photo of Wendy upon the screen. She nudged Wendy, who turned around in time to catch what appeared to be some kind of TV profile.

"Here at the X-Games," a sportscaster declared, "we've seen big air, big moves, and, of course, big crashes." A montage of gravity-defying bicycle stunts flashed across the screen. "But ask all these riders who it is they look up to, and the answer is a person who's not even competing here."

The film clips were replaced by a series of talking heads belonging to various young daredevils.

"Wendy Corduroy," the first Extreme biker said. A caption identified him as Travis Pastrana.

"Wendy Corduroy," one Mike Metzger stated without hesitation.

"Watching her is what got most of us hooked on bikes in the first place," Nate Adams insisted. "She's the best!"

Footage of some of Wendy's most famous stunts played upon the TV screen. A perilous leap over a pit filled with hissing rattlesnakes. A loop-the-loop executed at over a hundred miles an hour. Riding a tightrope over Niagara Falls. Zooming through over a dozen flaming hoops at Madison Square Garden. Jump ing from the top of one skyscraper to another. Racing around the rim of the Seattle Space Needle. Climbing the elevated ladder of a fire truck into a burning build ing-and out the other side. The "Pit and the Pendulum" stunt, with Wendy narrowly missing a swinging blade while catching air over a bottomless chasm. Weaving through a staged stampede of longhorn cattle. The rocket-powered launch over Copperhead Canyon ...

Each clip evoked a vivid memory for Tambry. She remembered every heart-stopping moment. She figured she had lost a year of her life, and a layer of stomach lining every time Wendy had a close call. It was a miracle her hair hadn't turned completely white by now.

"She's been called the 'the Mother of all Moto-X,' " the sportscaster continued. "She's revered by riders all around the world, despite the fact that she's always shunned the spotlight, refusing to do any interviews. Her personal life is a mystery, the woman herself an enigma even to her fans." The reporter pressed a micro phone on the trio of extreme bikers from before. "Why is she the name on everyone's lips?"

"Skills. Creativity," Mike explained. He doffed his backwards baseball cap in respect. Wendy's face was tattooed on his arm. "But if I had to say what sets her apart from everyone else . . . the woman has no fear."

Nate nodded in agreement. "No fear whatsoever."

"Even when a jump's getting away from her," Travis said admiringly, "she's got this look like . . . like she doesn't care what happens to her."

Tell me about it, Tambry thought. Sometimes she wished Wendy had a healthy dose of fear in her, not to mention the slightest bit of interest in her own self-preservation. Most of the time, actually.

But then she wouldn't be Wendy Corduroy. . . .

Fresh footage, of that crash landing earlier tonight, ran on the TV. Tambry winced, and the guys around the poker table groaned in sympathy, as Wendy slammed into the retaining wall in front of thirty thousand horrified fans. The visor on her helmet exploded outward in slow motion. The shaky video clip, which looked like it had come from some spectator's camcorder, threw Tambry back to those awful minutes immediately after the crash, when it had really looked like Wendy wasn't going to make it.

That was the worst crash yet, she thought, and I've seen some beauts.

Spotting the remote on nearby counter, she clicked off the TV. Nobody objected; Tambry guessed that the rest of the crew had found the crash footage just as disturbing as she had. No one aboard the bus was in any hurry to relive that incident just yet. The guys grate fully returned to their game as the conversation turned back to booze, babes, and whose hand was it anyway? Cards were shuffled and cut.

Tambry plopped herself back down in the booth. She looked across the table at Wendy. Her face held a disapproving expression.

"What?" Wendy said finally, conscious of her friend's scrutiny.

Wendy didn't mince words. "You should be dead after that crash that happened today."

"I got lucky," Wendy said.

Wendy wasn't buying it. " 'Lucky'? My dad had a hunting dog named Lucky and he had one eye and no balls." She didn't expect her words would have any effect on Wendy's reckless behavior, but she had to make the effort, if only for her own piece of mind. "Lucky doesn't really cover it, Wendy. You got an angel watching over you, or something."

"Yeah, maybe," Wendy murmured. A pensive look, that Tambry knew too well, came over her friend's face. A melancholy tone entered her voice as Wendy turned her head to stare bleakly out the window at the forlorn desert outside. The tinted window reflected her brood ing demeanor. "Or maybe it's something else."

Like what? Tambry wondered, but she knew better than to press Wendy when she got into a mood like this. She had known Wendy since they were kids, and was the closest thing the celebrated rider had to a confidant, but there were times when Tambry felt she didn't know Wendy at all. All she knew was that her friend carried some sort of terrible burden with her wherever they went. Tambry had given up trying to figure it out. She'll tell me about it when she's ready . . . if she lives that long.

Once again, I cannot BEGIN to thank my good buddy EZB for the help he gave me with the opening of the chapter. He is a genius among men. Seriously. If you haven't already done so, go read his story "Return to Gravity Falls". Go. Do it.

Why are you still reading this? Go on! Read it!