FlacoFuerte

FlacoFuerte came into Champions Court before the sun did, and stopped at the rail.

The Main Track lay out ahead of them, bare ground, long and flat and grey with dew. Nothing here was decorated. No flags, no paint on the posts, nothing except the Scoreboard at the far end, where every result was hand-lettered, wins and losses side by side in the same plain paint. Down past the last curve, the south lamps were still burning.

FlacoFuerte held the rail with one hand and a rolled-up race bib with the other. It had no number on it. They hadn’t decided yet whether to pin it on.

On the start line, one Beast was already up. A Squirrel, like FlacoFuerte, crouched over lane one with a stick of chalk, drawing the line so straight it looked ruled. Then they stood, double-knotted their left shoe, looked straight at the rail, and pointed.

“You. New? Good. Need a favour.”

FlacoFuerte had been planning to watch a while longer. But somebody had asked.

The Squirrel was Sunny Barrow, captain of Morning Court, and Sunny talked in short bursts, like someone counting strides. Two dawn heats lost this week. One by a stride, one by half a stride. Sunny had hammered a white peg into the far curve, right where the winner had been at the count of forty.

“Stand by the peg. I run, you call how far behind it I am. Honest. Friday’s the next heat.” A breath. “Honest, I said.”

Up on the Scoreboard ledge, an old Original was dipping a brush into a jar of water. That was Old Twelve, who painted every result at first light. “Practice laps don’t go on the board,” Old Twelve said, to nobody in particular. “Nobody shakes on them. Only a number.”

In Champions Court, FlacoFuerte would learn, a race was only true for good once both runners shook on it: right hand, eyes up, say the margin. Until then it could still change.

FlacoFuerte walked to the far curve and stood by the peg. Old Twelve counted. Sunny came round the bend fast, all elbows, and at forty Sunny was a stride short of the peg. A clean, whole stride.

Sunny pulled up, breathing hard. “Well?”

FlacoFuerte looked at Sunny’s face and saw a Beast bracing for a hit. There was an easy thing to say. Close. Hard to tell. It would cost nothing this morning and everything on Friday.

“A stride,” FlacoFuerte said. “You start fast and slow down past the lamps. I could see you do it.”

Sunny went very still. Then, bossier than ever: “Again. Measure twice. Peg. Go.”

But FlacoFuerte didn’t go to the peg. They unrolled the bib, still blank, and pinned it to their shirt with fingers that weren’t quite steady. Then they walked to the start and stood in lane two.

“Somebody else can call it,” FlacoFuerte said. “I’ll run past the lamps with you. You won’t slow down if you’re chasing someone.”

Sunny stared at the bib, then at FlacoFuerte, and something in Sunny’s shoulders came down an inch.

“Fine,” Sunny said. “Don’t get in my way.”

Old Twelve set down the brush and started counting. FlacoFuerte crouched on the chalk line, a little smudged now, and for the first time all morning they weren’t at the rail.