The Meadow 147 to be sensitive about his ears. Mary’s Child listened to me for over a year as I walked him round the shed row. Never once did he joke about my face, or tease that I talk through my nose. I loved him for it, though he was just a cheap claimer. Mary’s Child stopped listening to me after he collapsed in yesterday’s third race. He was dead before the vet got to him. After leaving the grandstand, I edge my way along the outer circle of the track. I come out in the parking lot surrounding the backstretch kitchen. Behind the kitchen, I halt in front of the gates where Mary’s Child lies. It took four men to pull him into the ambulance, then transport him to this spot where they dump all the dead horses. I am on my knees, bending to stare at him through a small hole where one of the maintenance men mistakenly drilled too low. The chain and padlock holding the gate together tap coldly against the top of my uncovered head. It is Christmas Eve Day. Before I hurry toward my other gig as a hotwalker, I promise Mary’s Child I will visit him one more time before the knackers come to take him away. You can search all you want. You will not find the number 13 anywhere at Hickory Downs. Not on a barn wall. Not above a stall. Not even on the door of a dormitory room. Numbers are important, especially when the Cleary family who owns Hickory Downs adds up the handle for the day. A hotwalker like me would be considered a fraction below one, but above zero. The horse I am walking today in barn 12 B is a filly who ran fourth in yesterday’s fifth race. In terms of numbers, her finish paid her feed and vet bill—no more. My trainer, Phillip Farmington, is from Trinidad. He has ten horses in his stable with a fifty per cent partnership in each except for today’s fourth place finisher, Mary’s Miracle. He owns her outright. Mr.
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