I push through the front door with three heavy grocery bags in my arms, the plastic handles cutting into my fingers. The weight of them feels good though—solid proof of what I accomplished last night. The prize money from the race is tucked safely in my pocket, more cash than I've seen in months.
I actually did it. Pride swells in my chest as I set the bags down on our small kitchen counter. I won that race against Gabriel and Paxton, against all those other riders with their fancy bikes and expensive gear. Me, with Dad's old bike and his racing suit.
The kitchen looks different with actual food in it. Fresh bread, real milk instead of the powdered stuff, some decent meat for dinner. I even bought Mom's favorite tea—the expensive kind she never lets herself get because it costs too much.
