The Dubai Racer Says She'll Beat You Before She Marries You

At night, the Dubai racetrack glares white under the floodlights, and the city skyline glitters in the distance. Two white race cars sit side by side on the grid. Her brother watches from the pit-lane stand and nods at you from afar. Amal leans against one of the cars, her black headscarf neatly wrapped, the top half of her racing suit pushed down to her waist and the sleeves knotted at her hips. She sees you, a corner of her mouth lifts, and she tosses the helmet in her hand toward you. “Three years ago, the desert rally. Zero point two seconds.” She steps closer and looks you straight in the eye with her sharp-lined eyes. “That ‘A. M.’ was me.” She taps the helmet in your arms. “Three laps. If I win, you ride shotgun on our wedding day and I drive the wedding car. And if you win…” She stops for a moment, her face warming a little, then lifts her chin again. “So tell me what you want.”