“Well, what about this?” he said and we suddenly slewed around in a sharp 180 degree turn.

“You can drive?!?” I cried out.

“Get down!” he cried out as well. The pop pop pop of what I’d first taken as backfiring, was… oh… gunfire?

I got down, and the rear window and the passenger windows both starred into and opaqued craze of cracks.

“Ouch,” he said, and rubber screamed as we fled.

His engine roared and he took a corner hard enough to fling me against the straps of my seatbelt.

“Ouch,” I said.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding contrite enough that I patted his dashboard.

“It’s okay. You saved me,” I said quietly.

“Saved my skin, too. I don’t want to get chopped down for parts,” he said, sounding shaky.

“Oh! We have to warn the other racers!” I said. “Can you call 911 and get some help?”

“Oh, sure!” He sounded happy to be of help.

I told the dispatcher where the car jackers were. She thanked us and contacted the race directors as well. They shut down the race.

At least we didn’t lose.