motorsports* quarantine zone

As he walks, it slowly slips out of his grip, sweaty palms not able to cling on. Every so often, he has to re-wind it around his hand, loop over loop, until it's cutting off his circulation once again, and when he pulls with all his might, it doesn't budge from his hold.

The other end of the rope is wrapped securely around the horn of a bull.

Once, Max didn't need to pull at all. Secure in his grasp, all he would have to do is cling on tight as he and his companion tore across the earth together. Sometimes, even—when the sun dipped below the horizon, or the rain poured heavy from the sky—the bull would snort and lower its head, and Max would swing his leg over its neck and would grab onto its horns himself. And it would almost feel like flying.

Nowadays, though, Max trudges along in front and pulls with all his might, and the bull drags a path through the sand behind, miles and miles, until the wind covers up the impression.

His hand is scarred deep from the burn of the rope. His head pounds from the beating sun. His tongue sits dry and heavy in his mouth.

Some days, he desperately wants to head for the heat-haze mirages of oases sitting on the horizon. But he can't. He knows that as soon as he arrived, the rope would be cut from his hand, and his bull would have to face the desert alone.

And Max... Max would have to face the rest of the world alone.

He averts his eyes and tells himself they're only illusions. Reminds himself that soon, he'll cross this desert, and he'll reach the sea. And the salt air will reinvigorate them both, and Max will swing a leg over the neck of his bull and grab the horns, and they'll go so fast they'll be able to run on water.

He just— needs to keep going.

He takes another step and pulls the rope, heaving. The bull drags; the rope slips in his grip, his hand sweaty.