The Stars Shine Bright by Sibella Giorello Page B

dirt oval.
    And I jumped in front of it.
    â€œHey!” the guard yelled. “What’re you doing?!”
    Planting my Ferragamos, I stretched out both arms. The pain in my side almost doubled me over. But I heard the brakes squeal. The van skidded into a puddle. Whipped forward on its rollers, the side door slammed shut with a bang. I stared at the old man behind the cracked windshield. He looked murderous. I ran forward and placed one hand on the hood, gritty with dirt.
    â€œThat’s a Hot Tin horse out there,” I hollered. “I need to go with you.”
    The vet bared yellow teeth.
    Keeping one hand on the hood, I scooted to the passenger side and jumped into the seat. It was covered with newspapers, so dry they crackled when I sat down. The vet hit the gas before my door was closed and shot past the guard, still holding the gate open. I felt a bump as we left the pavement. The vet clunked the gearshift into low. Wet soil splatted the undercarriage like strafing gunfire.
    â€œYou ever get in the way again,” the vet growled, “I’ll euthanize you.”
    He was a large man, in his late sixties, with a full head of pale curly hair that looked like it might once have been red. His fleshy face carried a small nose and mouth and lucent blue eyes. A Celtic face. And right now, a face that looked one beat away from an aneurysm. The meaty hands gripping the steering wheel jerked back and forth as he plowed down the turf.
    â€œRadio!”
    â€œPardon?”
    He took one hand off the wheel and pointed at the floor, at my feet. “Give me the radio!”
    I didn’t see it but kicked through another mound of newspapers and greasy paper bags from fast food restaurants until my foot touched something hard. I picked up the black radio. He yanked it out of my hand and pressed his thumb into the side button.
    â€œThis is Doc Madison. I want blue screens! On the track—pronto!”
    He threw the radio to the dashboard, where it slid down to the cracked windshield. With each crooked swipe of the wipers, I saw more people streaming out of the grandstands. They stood two- and three-deep along the rail, oblivious to the rain, while the track’s security force tried to contain them.
    Swerving to a fishtailed stop, the vet jumped out. We were fifteen yards from the starting gate and the bay horse that had jumped out first now pranced in agitated circles. Two men tried to grab her dangling reins—the jockey and a tall, lanky guy who moved like a goofy rodeo clown.
    The vet headed straight for SunTzu.
    Climbing out of the van, I tried to take a mental photograph of the scene. It had a simple horrifying focus. Like a drawing by a traumatized child. A man riding a horse. But everything was happening in a one-dimensional plane. On the ground, the jockey’s torso rose perpendicular to the colossal horse, while his legs disappeared under the saddle.
    â€œRadio!” the vet yelled.
    I turned back automatically, grabbing it from where it was wedged between dash and cracked glass. The vet snatched it from my hand again and pressed the button.
    â€œBrent! Where are you? Get over to the starting gate—pronto!”
    His barrel chest was heaving, his large face florid, as he waited for a reply. When I finally heard the assistant vet’s reply, his voice sounded calm. Studiously calm. Like he knew the vet needed steadying.
    â€œI’m getting my—”
    The old man cut him off. “I don’t care what you’re doing. We need an ambulance. I don’t see the track’s EMT out here. Something must’ve happened in the stands. Call 911—now!”
    Brent replied, something about the equine ambulance on its way, but the vet shoved the radio at me. And I wasn’t listening either because the jockey was staring at the rain, unblinking.
    His riding helmet was still clasped to his head, the chin strap cinched for a race that never came. But his head was