The City That Never Stands Still

Art Gallery City never slept — but on race day, it absolutely buzzed.

Crayon Deer Tower stood at the city's heart, tall and proud, its four giant crayon-deer statues gleaming in the morning light. From the highest balcony, Crayon Mother Deer leaned against the railing and watched the streets fill up below. Her blue-and-black dress caught the breeze. Her small antlers tilted as she smiled.

"Mama, there's a balloon cart!" called Pebble, her younger daughter, pressing her fawn nose to the glass door behind her.

"I see it," said Crayon Mother Deer warmly.

Her older daughter, Clover, stepped out and crossed her arms. "The race banners went up already. Seven whole streets of them."

"The Grand Velocity Race," said Crayon Mother Deer, almost to herself. "Biggest one in fifteen years."

Below, the city shimmered with color and noise and anticipation. Somewhere down there, the starting line was already painted fresh.

Something in the Blur

The starting line stretched across Cobalt Avenue like a bright white scar — chalk-fresh and buzzing with the smell of popcorn and engine heat. Crayon Mother Deer stood at the edge of the crowd, her blue-and-black dress pressed close by the bodies around her. She'd left Pebble and Clover up in the tower — this was her quick look before the race began.

Racers lined up in sleek, color-streaked suits. The crowd pushed forward. A drone hummed overhead, its little camera swiveling from runner to runner, broadcasting to the city's screens.

Then Crayon Mother Deer spotted her.

A racer — bib number forty-two — standing completely still while every other racer stretched or paced. Her hands were shaking. Her eyes weren't on the track.

They were scanning the rooftops.

The starting horn blasted.

Every racer launched forward.

Number forty-two ran — hard, fast — but she kept glancing back over her shoulder, not at the other runners.

At something behind the crowd.

Something that wasn't racing at all.