A  ’56 pink Buick with red leather seats drove through Myra’s tissue mass. Asleep, Myra paid no attention. The Buick, who called himself Buck, left his garage on the topside of the index finger, turned left at the wrist, and headed for a reported muscle swelling.

Weaving through the fascia, ducking red corpuscles, Buck smelled fumes and engine sounds. He pushed down on the accelerator.

Approaching the scene, Buck saw a racetrack and guessed it might be three inches around the oval of inflammation. “Wow,” he said to no one, “ I bet you can barrel around that baby.”

Rounding the kneecap, there it was—three cars with numbers on their sides, fellow white blood cells who heeded the call to combat Myra´s affliction. Mechanics toyed with the carburetors, tailpipes, and fuzzy dice. People wearing satin jackets—their driver’s name emblazoned on the back—polished the steeds.

Buck pulled into the pit. He had no crew and didn’t care. He would show these thoroughbreds some actual speed. He revved up his V-8. His pipes growled and barked. People stared and nodded in his direction—time to race.

Buck tucked in behind a ’57 Chevy as they entered the track for a few warmup laps.

Myra moved. She arose and walked around…walked a distance.

Buck turned his hat around. Game on. The flag dropped, sending the oldies headed for the first turn as Buck screamed, “Wooo hooo.” Cars jockeyed for position, and he grazed the 1-inch backstretch wall.

Myra stopped moving; a light shone through her dermis, creating a glow on the track, the racers, and the crowd of beer-guzzling fans. The point of a scalpel penetrated the skin. The intensity of the light made Buck shield his headlights, declaring, “This could be bad.”

Cars in the parking lot roared to life as fans, racers, and pit crews fled to distant stretches of tendons, toenail retreats, and bone bungalows until the next popup racetrack appeared.

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