“Man, look at him. He’s docile. A pet, not a fighter.”

Her middle tightens. “That’s messed up.”

“That’s dogfighting.” He sniffs. “Besides, over there, the skinhead? That’s Karl Rider. His dog, Orion, hasn’t lost a match. Trains him with those chains. Makes him drag around tractor tires. Makes him tough as balls. He’s probably outside his weight class or close to it. But money makes that a moving target. Bribes make the world go ’round. This world, anyway.”

“Orion.” Her teeth clench. “Figure he’d name it something more Hitlery. Adolf. Himmler. Something.”

“Nah, check it. Orion. O-R-I-O-N. Our Race Is Our Nation.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Here. Look—the ref. Match is about to start.”

The ref isn’t very ref-like. No black-and-white stripes, no whistle. He’s just a potbellied yokel with a fat nose over a big black beard who comes out and gesticulates with his hand almost like he’s whipping around an invisible lasso: “Orion versus Omar. To your corners!”

Each handler brings his dog toward its respective corner.

The ref goes and, using a screwdriver, carves a semicircle line in the dirt before each dog, saying, “Behind the line, face away.” And both the skinhead and the black dude turn their dogs away from each other, toward the wall, toward the crowd. The ref asks each man to bare his arms, then his calves, and then he pats each dog down.

“The heck’s he doing?” she asks.

Guy says, “Checkin’ for cheats. Some guys hide shivs or razors. Or stuff to throw in a dog’s eye like sand or whatever. I’ve even seen it where they try to put razors on the dog’s paws or in their mouths. That’s amateur-hour bullshit, though. Doesn’t happen too often, but Cajun Rules says you gotta check.”

“Face your dogs,” the ref calls. Another lasso motion.

Each handler forcibly turns his dog to face the center of the arena. The animals stand just behind their handlers, head and shoulders poking through the men’s legs.

The ref shouts: “Let go.”

The men step aside—and the fight’s on.

Atlanta’s heart’s racing and she expects the tempo of the fight to match it, figuring these two beasts will barrel forward and slam into one another like two cannonballs, but that’s not how it happens. The battle unfolds slowly and clumsily, the animals hesitant—if it’s a car crash, it’s one set to a slo-mo crawl.