I'm going to pretend I never heard that."

There was a prolonged silence on the line, and for an instant L.T. imagined that Denham Peck's feelings had been hurt by his tone ... but just for an instant.

That's like expecting ice to take offense if you imply that it's cold, L.T. thought.

"Look," Peck finally said. "It was just a suggestion."

"First," L.T. replied, "I won't have you trying to dictate my colt's schedule. The race in Nairobi is too close. Second, to 'suggest' that I run Rime Or Reason and not really try with him ... that's incredibly callous, even for WorldWideRacing. So you can take your under-the-table 'appearance fee' and ..."

L.T. swallowed the balance of his retort. He had long ago resolved never to let Peck rile him, and that determination was especially important now.

After all, it's not every day that you got to go for the Triple Crown.

"Please," Peck said, "you misunderstand WWR's position. We're just thinking about what's best for racing. If you win the Belmont today, imagine the goodwill an appearance in the East African Cup would generate ... and you could still make the Travers."

What's best for WorldWideRacing, you mean, L.T. wanted to blurt out. At first, WWR had looked to be an ally, a white knight. What happened?

Peck seemed to take his silence as tacit acceptance.

"Good, good. I'll see you at the conference," he said before disconnecting.

Let him think what he will for now.

L.T. glanced at the dark vid-screen above his dresser. The call had jolted him from a fitful sleep, and he hadn't had a chance to check the clock before Peck had started in.

"Time?" he asked aloud, and the screen came alive in soft, glowing green: 5:07 AM - 08 Jun 2019.

Geez ... doesn't he ever sleep?

L.T. shifted to the edge of his bed and sat with his eyes closed.

"Today is for you, Nicholas," he whispered, as always.

Inevitably, when he spoke with Denham Peck, L.T. was reminded of Nicholas-both so persistent, both so hardheaded. Nicholas had spoken incessantly of his dreams to work with horses. Despite that, L.T. had been proud of himself for being a "good parent," as he railroaded his ever-more-distant son toward college instead.

L.T. shook his head, struggling to keep the painful memories at bay.

Why is it, when you finally realize you weren't listening, it's always too late?

He moved to the kitchen and requested the room to put through a call to his assistant. He had been tempted to spend the night with Rime Or Reason but had opted to get what meager rest he could before the world went crazy. Anyway, the colt was in good hands; Cole Robertson was the best horseman he knew.

The speaker beeped twice and the operator's ever-cheery voice filled the room.

"Good morning, WorldWideRacing."

"Morning, Mary," L.T. said. "Can you connect me? I think we're on Lot 81 this time."

"Mr. Barnes, hello! Your colt was moved to 80 ... security and all. It'll take a few minutes to find Mr. Robertson ..."

Peck is always up to something, L.T. thought, still irked by the early call. Yesterday, it was that commercial he wanted my colt to do for WorldWideGaming. Why in the heck would I let my horse appear in a casino ad?

L.T. grabbed a container of OJ from the refrigerator. His practical side told him he should eat, but the flock of butterflies already astir in his midsection begged to differ. He flipped on WorldWideRacing, retrieved his copy of The Times from the printer tray, and then extended his arms overhead.

Forty-seven isn't old, he reassured himself, but his muscles were surely taking a little longer to stretch these days, and if they hadn't recently switched to a smaller font in the newspaper, his eyes were beginning to show their age as well.

The excited call of a track announcer caught his attention, and he glanced up to see the stretch duel of a claiming race from Tokyo WWR. The total handle figure in the corner of the screen leapt out at him: $131-million wagered around the globe, and that with most of the U.S. bettors still sound asleep.

It's gonna be a big day for the WWR bean counters. And the day of a lifetime for me.

L.T.'s mind flashed back to the '80s, to his youth spent working his father's farm-caring for horses, breaking them, and, most especially, riding to his heart's content. Like every boy reared around horses, he had fantasized about being the next Pincay or Shoemaker, and he smiled as he recalled long winter afternoons spent alone in the frigid barn, astride a bale of hay, pumping furiously as he rode Seattle Slew to yet another daydream victory.

He had made it on-track, even won his share of races, but the needle on the scale had taken to spinning too far to the right, the calendar pages falling away too quickly, and his dreams of riding a champion were dashed by the reality of his flesh. He had continued plugging along, nourished through hard times by the pride in Nicholas's eyes, and he had never really abandoned hope, until ... the night that Fate intervened-in the guise of a drunk driver-and Nicholas was taken from him.

He knew it wasn't his fault, but still his head rang incessantly with the echoes of his wife's melancholy, and the image of his son's mangled body seemed forever burned onto his retinas.

Five hollow years passed-his desire to go on often questioned-but through it all his love for the game had never diminished. And when computers changed the complexion of racing, he realized he was being offered a gift he could never have dared hope for-another chance to fulfill his childhood dreams.

But the game is different now. Maybe too different.

"L.T., good morning. How're the nerves?" his assistant asked, plucking him from his memories.

"No need for coffee this morning, that's for sure," L.T. replied, chuckling. "How's Rimer feeling?"

"He's perfect. I took him for another walk on the new surface; he seems to like the bounce in it."

"Yeah, it seems even more forgiving than the old."

"Ain't technology grand?" Cole kidded.

"I've got the obligatory round table on WWR this morning," L.T. said, "but I should be to you by 1 at the latest."

"If Peck limits the fibernet questions to a mere thousand, you will be."

"Well, I've got my stock answer ready-'Rime Or Reason will do the talking for both of us.' "

The receiver picked up a snort in the background.

"I'd say he agrees with you, boss."

These animals are amazing. In the face of so many changes, we need to remind ourselves that they are still made of horseflesh.

The net conference went well enough, L.T. thought as he left the set, though I could have done without the usual rehash of my botching the WorldCup Juvenile.

He had gotten into traffic trouble several times in the 37-horse field at EuroWestWWR the previous November and they had finished a well-beaten 11th, one of only three defeats handed Rime Or Reason as a two-year-old. At three, the colt had fleshed out and matured, and he came into the Belmont undefeated for the year, winning the Kentucky Derby by two lengths and the Preakness by a widening seven.

WWR was reaping a financial windfall with the potential for the first Triple Crown winner of the 21st century, and they were pushing the PR envelope. L.T. had gone along with most of their machinations, although at times it seemed the show was coming before the race itself.

L.T. spotted Denham Peck from afar, but despite his best efforts to sneak away, the vice president of WWR managed to corner him.

"My man ... big day for you today!" Peck said as he slapped L.T. heartily on the back.

L.T. detested the man's false camaraderie.

"And for you as well."

"Yes, indeed. We're projecting a ten today!"

L.T. did the mental math. Ten digits: they were expecting a billion dollars to be wagered on the race. The figure boggled his mind; Peck might just as well have