There are claiming races at every meet, with a set claiming price; they’re designed to even the field, to keep overqualified horses out. Any horse entered can be bought, before the race goes off, for the set price. But it doesn’t usually happen, especially at the end of the season, when nobody wants more horses to feed.

“Anyone claiming today?” I asked the boy. He had a padlocked toolbox in the corner, with a slot in the top where you dropped your money if you wanted to buy. The one time we’d claimed a horse, we couldn’t write a check before post time; we’d drained our checking with hospital bills and had to take the money out of our horseman’s account, the one that paid the jockeys.

“Not with racing so bad,” he said.

“I’ll be back,” I said. “And I’ll need a jockey. Maybe the girl.” I was embarrassed not to remember her name.

The state race steward was still standing by the beer window. He put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me sideways to show me to the tall cowboy he was talking to. “I’ve known this gal since she was two,” the steward said. “Running around here with an ice cream bar all over her, just like she owned the place.”

It was going to be easier than I thought; I edged him away from the cowboy.

“I dunno, Addy, it’s a claiming race,” he said. “You don’t wanna put a stakes horse in a claiming race.”

“The race won’t fill otherwise,” I said. “There’s time to tell the handicappers.”

“Does your dad know you’re doing this?”

“He just wants to watch that horse run,” I said. “This is the last chance until next year.” I didn’t say anything about the possibility of not having a next year. I’d lie and call in favors but I wasn’t ready to play that card.

“You’ll forfeit your stakes money,” the steward said.

“That’s okay. Better than hurting my horse in a long race.”

He looked hard at me. “You mad at your dad about something, Addy?”

I blinked stupidly for a second. I was—I was mad at him for getting sick. For having faith in jockeys. For being corruptible in body and incorruptible in mind.

“God, no,” I said.

The steward sighed and drained his plastic cup. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

I asked the boy in the race office to hold the announcement until I found my father, but Connell had already heard, and he stopped me on my way out.

“That’s a claiming race,” he said.

“No one will claim her.”

“I would have ridden her,” Connell said. “Does your dad know about this?”