1
ZOYA
The final bet slip crumples between my fingers as I feed it into the counting machine. Another losing ticket from tonight's seventh race, the paper worn soft from nervous hands that clutched it through eight furlongs of false hope. The machine whirs and clicks, processing the evening's take from window twelve while I record the totals in my ledger.
Podsolnukh Racetrack empties slowly after the last race. Voices echo from the grandstand as patrons file toward the exits, their conversations a mix of celebration and disappointment. Winners discuss their systems and strategies. Losers curse the jockeys and the odds. The familiar sounds of a racing night winding down drift through the walls of the betting office where I work.
My station faces the window that overlooks the paddock area. During racing hours, I watch horses being led to and from their stalls while processing bets and payouts. Now the area sits empty except for a few maintenance workers hosing down the walkways. The floodlights cast everything in harsh white, turning the wet concrete into a mirror that reflects the night sky.
Yana Volkova sits at the station beside mine, her red fingernails clicking against her keyboard as she enters her final numbers. She's worked here longer than anyone, long enough to remember when the track hosted international races and drew crowds that filled every seat. Now we're lucky to see half capacity on weekend nights.
"Dead crowd tonight," she says, not looking up from her screen. "Barely cleared minimum on the early races."
I nod but don't respond. Conversation during closing duties draws attention from the floor supervisors, and attention in this business means scrutiny of your books. Management expects their employees to be efficient, accurate, and invisible.
The lights flicker once, then steady. The building's electrical system shows its age in small ways—doors that stick, heating that runs too hot or too cold, fluorescent bulbs that buzz with the persistence of angry insects. But the security cameras never malfunction, and the counting machines never miss a transaction.
I balance the final column of numbers and lock my ledger in the desk drawer. The evening's take was average for a Thursday night—enough to keep management satisfied but not enough to generate excitement. Routine numbers for a routine shift.
A commotion erupts from somewhere in the building. Shouting voices, running footsteps, the sharp blast of a whistle that signals emergency. Through the window, I see people gathering near the main entrance, their faces turned toward something I can't see from this angle.
"What's that about?" Yana abandons her station and moves to the window beside me.
More people rush toward the disturbance. Track security appears, their radios crackling with urgent communications. Someone waves frantically at the parking lot, and I hear the distant wail of sirens approaching.
"Looks serious." Yana presses her face to the glass. "That's a lot of commotion for closing time."
The sirens grow louder. An ambulance pulls into view, followed by another. Paramedics rush from their vehicles with equipment and urgency. The crowd thickens as more track employees emerge from various offices.
"We should go see what happened." Yana moves toward the door.
"No." The word comes out sharp, but I know better than to put my nose where it doesn’t belong. "We finish our counts first."
She stops and turns back to me, eyebrows raised. "Someone might need help."
"The paramedics are here. We can't help, and leaving our stations during closing creates problems with management." I focus on organizing my paperwork, though my hands want to shake. "Finish your work."
Yana stares at me for a long moment, then shrugs and returns to her station. The sounds from outside continue—more sirens, more voices, the mechanical beeping of medical equipment. Through the window, I watch paramedics work while police officers begin arriving.
My phone buzzes against the desk. I glance at the screen and see messages from Damir.
DAMIR: 11:47 PM: Something happened at the track tonight.
DAMIR: 11:47 PM: Don't ask questions about it.
DAMIR: 11:48 PM: Come to my place. Now.
I stare at the words, reading them twice. Damir never contacts me at work. He knows the risks, knows that management monitors communications. For him to break protocol means crisis.
The emergency vehicles outside multiply. Police cars arrive, their red and blue lights painting the building in alternating colors. Detectives in dark suits emerge, along with crime scene technicians carrying equipment cases.
Crime scene. The words form in my mind unbidden. Whatever happened outside has moved beyond medical emergency into investigation territory.
I gather my coat and purse, my movements automatic. Every motion feels deliberate while my mind races through possibilities. Damir's messages. The emergency response. The timing of both events creating a connection I don't want to acknowledge.
"You're leaving?" Yana watches me prepare to go. "Don't you want to see what happened?"
"I'll read about it tomorrow." I pull on my coat and head for the door. "See you Monday."
