From Suzi’s point of view, it had suddenly become clear that the spin/flag/shape-shifting thing was not a clever driving tactic after all, but a sign of the TurboChaser malfunctioning in a very bad way, before finally giving up the ghost.

Most of it had fallen away, leaving only Amy spinning by the finishing line, in just her original new electronic wheelchair.

The Mobilcon XR-207. With no add-ons at all.

That was all that was left of it. Around her lay many fish tanks and trays and mattresses and chimneys and power torches. Meanwhile, Peter Taylor’s GT 500 stopped next to her.

“She pushed it too far!” shouted Rahul, running after Suzi.

“We all pushed it too far!” shouted Jack, running after Rahul.

“I’ve run out of crisps!” shouted Colin.

The parents and the children all ran over towards Amy, still in her chair, motionless, with her helmet on.

Then a loud, metallic voice said, “EXCUSE ME, EVERYONE! STEP AWAY FROM THE INJURED PARTY!”

“Oh, you got the megaphone working again, sir!” said PC Middleton.

“Yes, Middleton,” said DCI Bryant, holding it up. “Just needed some new batteries and a little bit of technical know-how, and—”

“ZIP IT, DCI BRYANT!” shouted Prisha. “WE NEED TO CONCENTRATE ON AMY!”

“Oh.”

Peter was the first to get to her. “Amy? Are you …”

But Amy waved him away. She waved all of them away. “Give me a minute,” she said.

They stood there, staring at her.

“Give me a minute,” she said.

She looked at the finish line, just a metre in front of her. Then down at the debris around her. Then she pressed the lever forward. Nothing happened.

I get knocked down. But I get up again.

Slowly, she put a hand on each wheel. It wasn’t designed, this chair – not like her old chair – to be pushed like that. It was supposed to be electric. She felt the heavy resistance of the wheels.

I get knocked down. But I get up again.

“Amy …” said her mum, concerned.

“Wait …” said Amy, breathing heavily.

Slowly – very slowly – the chair began to move forward, crunching over glass and plastic.

Rahul ran over to push – but Amy shook her head.

She rolled herself painstakingly, painfully, past the watching crowd of parents and police and friends – past the broken scattered pieces of the TurboChaser –

– and over the line.

Everyone cheered.

Even Peter.

And Amy lowered her hands, exhausted, her chin flopping on her chest. With an effort, she lifted her helmet off her head. She was very conscious that she was sitting there in just a wheelchair, bits of metal and glass and wiring behind her.

Her dad rushed up. “Amy! Are you OK? That was—”

“Yes, Dad, I’m fine.”

“Oh. Good. Nothing broken?”

Amy looked up at him. She was tired and breathless, but her voice rang out clear. “No. The thing is … I’m fine, Dad. Not just now, but generally. I think you think I might be a bit broken. But I’m really not. I’m kind of … always fine.”

Peter looked back at her. His eyes filled with tears.

Finally, after a long moment, he nodded.

“Oh, thank God, Amy,” said Suzi, barging Peter out of the way, and falling on to her daughter and kissing her and hugging her. “I’m so glad you’re OK! Because, if you weren’t,” she added, “I’d have killed you.”