Toto Wolff

The plane touched down. The man looked at his manager.

"When are we meeting?" His voice was chilling, though it usually wasn't. The flight must have been tough on him.

• In an hour, sir. The car...

The man raised his hand for silence. "I'll go to the meeting place myself; I want to see the city."

• As you say, sir.

He climbed into the Mercedes-Benz CLE 450 and surveyed the winter landscape that greeted him upon arrival. The sound of the engine cut through the air, the gauges lit up. A sense of impending excitement filled his stomach.

“Just like before a race,” he said out loud and stepped on the gas.

The car drove along a snow-covered road. Trees covered in white flakes flashed past the window. Russia is mesmerizing. As they rounded another turn, a silhouette appeared in the distance, standing at a bus stop. A girl was hitchhiking, dressed a little out of season. Clearly not for work here. The car slowed next to her, and then stopped completely. Toto opened the door, and the girl quickly jumped into the seat, a clicking sound was heard.

"Thank you. Phew, if you only knew how happy I am to see you," the girl began to chatter as she buckled herself in.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as he picked up speed.

— I was at my grandmother’s and missed the bus to the city.

• I see, then we're on the same path.

• Yeah, and what's your name?

• Toto, and you?