I’ll confess I jumped when the starting pistol fired—which seemed inordinately loud even from the top of the bleachers—mainly because I’d turned around to look at the cloud, which had doubled in size and now claimed nearly one quarter of the sky—spreading across it like a cancer, pulsing and flashing from deep inside.
“And here they go! They’re on their way down the stretch. The break was good; every animal got a clean shot out of the gate. And as they come down here to the eighth pole, it is Mesozoic Nights and Caligula ...”
I peered at the announcer’s booth, wondering once again what they were using for power, and so much of it—the stadium lights alone would have overwhelmed most generators. But then Maria nudged me and I focused on the action—seeing, to my horror, that Bromtide had al
