Danny Swervez, #19 Racer (for now)

Jackson Storm doesn't show up for his qualifying run.

"I'm gonna go find him," says Danny, whose turn on the track is in approximately 70 seconds.

"You can do whatever you want in a few minutes," Cam barks. "Until then, you're not going anywhere."

"I think we've waited long enough."

Danny's never seen anyone so much as try to talk to Storm. And no one's breathed Ray's name in weeks, which makes it seem like the world's decided they don't have to anymore. It's old news. All the stuff on TV now just talks about Ray's greatness; they make it sound like the dude died fifty years ago. You know. Honor the legacy. It's not supposed to hurt anymore. Arguably, it never was.

"What if he's not okay?"

"He is."

"Did you ask him?"

"If he is, the 20's not waiting for you. That's not your job. But if you miss qualifying - especially when you're standing right here in the paddock! - that's gonna matter a lot, Danny. Just run your lap. After that, you can do whatever you want. It's just a few more minutes. It's not going to matter."

"Of course it matters. We're racecars. Every thousandth of a second matters."

"Yes! You're a racecar! And racecars need to race."

"Racecars needs to remember they're cars. That's what should be coming in first, every day!"

"They'll send you back to Mexico," Cam warns him.

"Whatever. Ain't nothing wrong with Mexico," Danny replies. "Not sure why people keep talking like there is."

"That's not how I meant it and you know it. This is your future on a platter, Swervez. Don't get mixed up in the 20's drama."

"What if it were the 24? Or someone else? You're friends with that 66 pickup, aren't you?" says Danny. "Would it be any different if it weren't Storm?"

Danny doesn't think it would be. This isn't about Storm, or any of his drama. Maybe the dude's burned his bridges but certain thing's just ain't your fault. Danny's pretty chill with a lot of the guys, but if Cam died or something, he knows cars wouldn't exactly be lining up to shower him with sympathy. Not the real kind - just this showboaty, awkward stuff. Because people in this country get so dumb around death; Danny doesn't understand it. Keep pretending like it doesn't happen, hasn't ever happened. They make it sound like Reverham won the Piston Cup, not that he died. It's like they can't stomach the idea that something bad happened. Not to one of their own.

"You stay out of this," Cam snaps. Danny backs up to see who he's talking to. It's Lightning McQueen.

McQueen seems surprised to have been addressed. "Out of what?" he asks.

Danny glances at McQueen. He locks eyes with Cam. Then he looks up at the leaderboard. He's up.

Danny arcs tightly around McQueen and races out of the paddocks, toward the infield backlot. Up on the board, his number blinks once, twice, and switches to number 13. According to the official record, Danny Swervez did not show up for qualifying.

Behind him, Danny hears Cam shout, "This is your bad influence, isn't it?!"

McQueen responds, "I didn't do anything!"

"Didn't want to add another pole to your collection?" asks Danny, when he finds Storm. It wasn't hard. Anyone probably could have, if they'd tried. No one had.

"Think of it as a freebie," says Storm.

"Missed my shot, I guess," says Danny. "Wanted to look for you instead."

"Then you're an idiot."

"I wanted to make sure you were okay. I thought that might be more important."

"If I were going to drive off a bridge, I would have done that weeks ago. You're too slow."

"Don't guilt-trip me, man."

Storm quirks an eyebrow. He seems surprised guilt would have factored into the equation. "We're not friends. That's not your job," he says.

"Yeah, we're not. And friends don't have jobs. But you and me - we race together. Personally, I think that should make it our job. Otherwise what's the point of any of this?"

"No one on the planet has ever bothered to make the Piston Cup just so they could make friends."

"Yeah, sure. But I didn't travel four thousand miles just to not. Do you have any idea how much money my brother's gonna be making after he finishes his Maestrías at UNAM? My sister's a big-time actress back in México, bro. I came here for more than all that noise. If I just wanted that, I could've got it back home."

"Well, don't put the brakes on your sainthood just for me. Move it along." Storm drives straight for him, forcing Danny to reverse out of the way.

"See you at the back of the field, Storm," calls Danny, without turning to face Storm's tail. He's not really sure what he expected. A thank you? A heart-to-heart? Not really. He'd expected pretty much this, which was pretty much nothing. It's gonna sound really stupid if he needs to explain to his mother that this is what he got fired for.

But this, Danny knows he needed to do.

He says, "Hang in there, man."

For a fraction of a second, he hears Storm hesitate.

Danny doesn't bother going back to the paddocks. Cam's probably off blowing a gasket somewhere. There's no point in seeing how the rest of qualifying shakes out, so Danny heads back to his trailer.

Lightning McQueen is waiting for him. Usually, Lighting McQueen looks like he's always exactly where he's supposed to be. (Even when, according to Cam, he's not.) Because that's Lightning McQueen's whole thing, isn't it? He's always exactly where he thinks he's supposed to be, doing exactly what he thinks he's supposed to be doing. That's his whole vibe.

He doesn't look like that now. He looks like he half-expects Danny to run him out of the parking lot with a shotgun. It's possible that's what Cam had threatened.

"Yo," says Danny.

"Hi," says McQueen.

They stare at each other for a few seconds. Danny runs through several possible rejoinders in his head. You want an autograph, McQueen? Lost again, McQueen? Still not Bobby Swift, McQueen.

"I'm, uh, gonna go inside now," says Danny.

"Wait. What you did just now - " McQueen blurts out. "I think we should've done that a long time ago. All of us."

Danny snorts. He hadn't really done anything, "So, did I start a revolution? Are we all doing whatever 'I just did'?"

McQueen looks uncomfortable. "Well, no."

"This whole operation's whack, you know. A multi-billion dollar industry, and we can't figure out how to mourn a guy?"

"Yeah, I know."

"It's like it's not even allowed."

"I know."

It sounds weird, coming from someone Danny thinks of as being so much a part of 'that operation.' He's Lightning McQueen, after all, and the name's basically synonymous with "Piston Cup." Sure, maybe he's got a little rebel in him - Danny's been interviewed about McQueen's lovable unconventionality enough times to have been annoyed by it - but McQueen's still got seven of the darn things. As far as Danny's concerned, all of this is as much McQueen's bureaucratic mess as any suits'. But McQueen's disillusion seems sincere enough.

"So do something about it," says Danny.

"How?" McQueen asks.

Danny blinks. "Man, I'm not your teacher. I just got here, remember? There's a chance I won't even be there next week."

McQueen blinks back, as though he'd somehow forgotten that he was not the rookie in this conversation.

"Right," McQueen says, after a moment. He's regained his composure, left behind his wide-eyed look. He seems more like the Lightning McQueen Danny's used to - the grimly serious one who'd finished just before or just behind him for half a season last year. Seven-time champion, sponsors' darling, seasoned professional Lightning McQueen.

"I don't know what I'm doing, either," Danny confesses. All he'd done was play a little hide and seek and piss off his crew chief.

"I think you do," says McQueen. "Keep doing it."

It's probably meant as a compliment, but McQueen's focus is so intense when he says it it's the first time Danny's ever been intimidated by him. It's what McQueen must look like when he really wants something - when he wants to make a thing happen.

Danny's never seen that before. Not even on the track.