Omar’s wriggling, trying to move, trying to roll over. But Orion isn’t letting it happen. As Omar whines and thrashes, Deshawn hops up and down, wide-eyed and screaming, the corners of his mouth wet with spit froth: “No! No! C’mon! C’mon, son! Get up!” Deshawn hunkers low, suddenly waves his hands like he’s a man drowning at sea. “Fanged! Fanged! Omar’s fanged, yo! Ref, ref—you listening to me?”

The ref hurries over, hunkers down, then yells out: “Fang. On Omar. Handle your dogs, back to corner.”

Karl finally shows some life—and he’s pissed. He gets up in the ref’s face disputing the call, banging his two fists together. The ref acts like Karl isn’t even there.

“I said, handle your dogs.” It’s then Atlanta sees that the ref has a sparking stun gun in his hand. Karl backs off.

As the two handlers go for their dogs, Atlanta asks, “What’s ‘fanged’ mean?” But the answer becomes clear. As the handlers break the magnetic blood-bond between the two dogs, Atlanta gasps as she sees Omar’s face. The muzzle is ragged and looks like ground meat. She thinks: Go now. Get away. Stop watching. Or better still: Get the gun. Put these rabid animals down. And by rabid animals, she doesn’t mean the dogs.

But she stays. Transfixed. Held fast in the quicksand of her own horror.

She barely hears Guy telling her that being fanged means that the other animal’s tooth gets stuck in the other dog’s skin. Like that splinter in your hand.

She’s trembling now.

The dogs move back behind the scratch lines.

“Water test,” ref says.

Deshawn pulls a bottled water from the corner, uncaps it, pours a little into his own mouth. The ref gives him the thumbs up, then looks to Karl, who waves off the opportunity. With shaking hands, Deshawn pours the water over the dog’s face and then into the animal’s mouth. Omar leans in against his handler, whining in the back of his throat. Water and blood, water and blood. The earth below the brindle damp with both.

Guy leans in to her, “Handlers test the water first. Make sure it’s not juiced.”

“That dog. He’s really hurt.”

Guy nods, grim as the grave. “It’s only going to get worse.”

It all unfolds again. Face the dogs. Let them go. Back to center. Atlanta wants to run in there, turn the smaller dog away before he gets his throat ripped out.

The two dogs move toward one another. Orion is slow and methodical. And once more Omar waddles out there like he’s going to make best friends, like that whole muzzle-biting thing was just a casual misunderstanding between two old friends.

Orion aims to end it now. The big beast lunges again.

And his jaws snap closed on open air.