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Sally

Whoopi still shows up, not that anybody cares.

Sally weaves around another writhing pile of tanned young flesh and peers at the track. She doesn’t remember, but Dad told her Derby used to be different: the pomp was for the racers and their owners in the stands; the Infield was a bizarre sideshow.

When did that reverse, Sally wonders. When mint finally went extinct? When the jockeys first suited up in holographic ads?

She turns to the lawn, where two clown-strippers are riding a mechanical bull for hoots and thrown money. Behind her, brushed aluminum horses piston toward the starting gate.

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