Whiskers Rollentumble bent one skate wheel between his fingers, and the worn bearing crumbled into rust. These were the only skates he owned. In three days, he would race them in the Samsara Grand Circuit, the fastest contest a gnome could enter. He had dreamed of that trophy since he was knee-high to a toadstool. But these skates would not survive a single lap at racing speed. They would shatter under him, and he would never even qualify. He rolled slowly past his acorn-shaped cottage, thinking. Racing wheels cost more coins than he had ever held. Every smith in the hollow wanted gold he could not pay. He needed speed, and he needed it cheap, and those two needs refused to meet. A fat yellow cake rumbled toward him down the path. It rode on four wheels and left crumbs in its wake. Debbie and Donna Delite drove it together, the joined twins who shared one seat and never agreed on anything. They had beaten half the circuit last season. "You're the gnome who fixes things," Debbie called, leaning out one side. "He's the gnome who talks about fixing things," Donna said from the other. Whiskers had patched their cake's axle once, for free. He remembered. He hoped they did too. "I need racing wheels," he said. "Mine will break in the Grand Circuit. I can't buy new ones." The twins looked at each other, which meant turning their shared head slightly. Donna frowned. Debbie grinned. "We owe you an axle," Debbie said. "We owe him nothing," Donna said. "But our spare set rots in the back. Useless to us. Fused rims. Too fast for a cake this heavy." Debbie pulled a crate from behind their seat and dropped it at his feet. Four wheels gleamed inside, dark and hard, ringed with tight grooves. Whiskers lifted one. It weighed almost nothing. It spun without a sound. "Take them," Debbie said. "Take them and stop begging on the path," Donna added. The cake rumbled off before he could thank them. Whiskers knelt and worked through the afternoon. He pried his crumbling wheels free. He forced the twins' racing wheels onto his old frame. The rims were wider than his skates were built for. He shaved the mounts with a knife until the wheels snapped into place. His fingers bled by the time he finished. He stood and pushed off hard. The skates leapt forward. He had never moved so fast. Wind tore at his beard. The cottage blurred past. Then the left skate shuddered. The racing wheel was heavier than the worn frame could hold. A crack ran up the old boot leather. The frame bent under the speed it was never made to carry. Whiskers skidded to a stop, heart pounding. He had the wheels now. He had the speed. But his skates would tear apart before the first turn unless he found a frame strong enough to survive them.