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Marianna POV

He sees me in the corridor and doesn't change his pace or his expression, just walks toward me with the post-qualifying focus still on him, the slight compression around his eyes that means his shoulder has been hurting and he's been not-mentioning it for hours.

"P2," I say.

"Yes."

"Your shoulder has been hurting since lap four of Q3."

He looks at me. "How do you know it was lap four?"

"You changed your grip on the straight. Slightly wider hand position, shifting load off the posterior deltoid. I've been watching your onboard feed."

Something moves through his expression. Not quite surprise—he's past being surprised by the things I notice—but something warmer.

"Can we do the shoulder now or do you need to eat first," I say.

"Now. Then eat."

We find a treatment room in the back of the Veloce motorhome—small, functional, the portable version of what Kinetic has at home, all clean lines and equipment packed efficiently into a space designed for exactly this. I get the light on and the tools out and Duane sits on the edge of the table with his jacket off and the familiar landscape of his shoulder presenting itself for assessment.

It's worse than this morning. Which I expected. Which doesn't make it easier to see.

The AC joint is hot under my fingers—not alarmingly hot, not we're going to the hospital hot, but inflamed in the way that tells me the qualifying session loaded it significantly more than the warm-up had. There's a new pattern of tension in the upper trapezius, a compensation strategy his body has developed in real time over the course of the afternoon.

I work in silence. He lets me. This is something we've built over six weeks—the understanding that treatment works better without narration, that his body responds to focus rather than conversation, that the session itself is a kind of communication that doesn't need words layered on top of it.

About fifteen minutes in he says, quietly, "The gap to first was three tenths."

"I saw."

"If the rain had come two minutes later—"

"You'd have pole," I say. "I know. But you have P2, which means you're on the front row, and tomorrow you're racing against someone in a faster car with a shoulder that works properly." I apply pressure to the AC joint, watching his face carefully. "So I need you to tell me honestly how much it's bothering you, so I can make the best possible decision about tomorrow's protocol."

"Seven," he says, without being prompted.

I pause. "Actually seven? Not six that's really eight?"

"Actually seven."

"Okay." I adjust my approach, switching to a lighter technique over the inflamed area. "That's manageable. Uncomfortable but manageable. I'm going to change the taping configuration for the race—more AC support, slightly less restriction on the external rotation because you'll need the full range for the steering load in the fast corners."

He nods. Lets me work.

"Patrick wants to know if you can do the full stint on the hard tire," he says after a while.

"What did you tell him?"

"That I'd ask you."

I stop what I'm doing. Just for a second. Then I resume.

"He asked you to ask me," I say.

"Yes."

"Your race engineer deferred a strategic question to your physiotherapist."

"You're not technically my—"

"The point stands."

"He trusts your assessment of the physical situation," Duane says. "More than mine, apparently." A pause. "He said, and I'm quoting directly, that you seem like someone who tells the truth even when it's inconvenient."

"I like Patrick."

"Everyone likes Patrick."

"What's the strategic question actually asking? Is there a scenario where the longer stint makes the shoulder worse in a specific way?"

"Extended grip load on a degrading tire," he says. "You spend more time fighting the car. More micro-corrections. More cumulative stress on the shoulder girdle."

"How long is long?"

"The hard stint would be thirty to thirty-five laps. The alternative splits it with a medium compound stop around lap twenty."

I think about the tissue quality under my hands, the inflammation pattern, the way the AC joint has been responding to load throughout the day. "Tell Patrick the split strategy is better. Not because you can't do the thirty-five laps, but because you shouldn't, and there's a difference." I press into the trapezius. "You're racing for third or second depending on what happens at the start. You don't need to be a hero about tire strategy as well."

"He said you'd say something like that."

"Smart man, Patrick."

The almost-laugh. Even now, seven out of ten pain, tired from qualifying, British grey pressing against the motorhome windows—the almost-laugh, and I feel it land somewhere specific.

"Eat something," I say, finishing the treatment. "Real food, not a protein bar. And sleep by ten if you can manage it."

"I know how to prepare for a race day."

"You know how to prepare for a race day when your shoulder works properly. This is a different preparation."

He holds my gaze for a moment. "You're staying for the race."

"Dr. Lindholm has me here through Sunday evening."

"That's not what I asked."

I look at him. "Yes," I say. "I'm staying for the race."