Free End of the Race by Laurie Halse Anderson Page B

excitement. “Wow! If I could run that fast, I’d beat everyone at my track meets.”
    “Five Dog is gaining on Three Dog,” the announcer’s voice blares. “Six Dog lags behind ten paces, but he’s gaining, gaining on Five Dog!”
    The people in the stands scream: “Go, Three Dog!” “What’s the matter with you, Six Dog?” “I told you to bet on that Five Dog!”
    “Why don’t they call the dogs by their names?” Taryn asks.
    Gran shrugs, looking disturbed.
    My eyes try to keep track of each dog’s progress, “They must be going about fifty miles an hour, especially Two Dog on the outside of the track.”
    Suddenly, as I watch, Two Dog stumbles and falls. She doesn’t get up, just lies there yelping. “Oh, no!” I shout. “Let’s help her.” I’m ready to jump out of my seat, when a dog handler runs out.
    Meanwhile, the announcer continues with his brassy play-by-play as the other greyhounds streakpast the finish line. “We have an upset victory. Our frisky Five Dog, Bettor’s Dream, is Drescher’s winner today!” Groans and cheers rise from the stands.
    The handler leads the injured greyhound out and down through what looks like a trapdoor.
    “Where’s he taking Two Dog—I mean, Bad Girl?” I wince as I read the name listed on the program by number two.
    “I hope to an on-site vet, to get her attended to. She took quite a spill,” Gran replies.
    I’ve got to see where they’ve taken Two Dog. It’s now or never, because the next race is in fifteen minutes. If only I could find a shred of evidence, something to use as leverage to pressure Manny into seeing that these dogs are treated better. But what? Gran will never let us snoop around in unauthorized areas. I glance meaningfully at Taryn. “Gran, I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce.
    “I’d better come along, Maggie. This is no place for a girl to be milling around.” Gran returns her reading glasses to her shoulder bag and latches it closed.
    “I’m fourteen, Gran,” I sigh. “Besides, it’s right atthe end of our seating area.” But Gran doesn’t look convinced.
    Taryn jumps in, just as we’d planned. “Don’t worry, Dr. Mac. I’ll go, too. We’ll protect each other.” Taryn adopts a kung fu stance,
    Gran chuckles. “OK, but come right back. I made the appointment with Manny Drescher immediately following the next race.”
    I give Gran a thumbs-up, and Taryn and I inch back along the row of seats. When we reach the main hall, I turn to her. “Last chance to back out. This mission might be kind of scary. And Gran will be mad at us if she finds out.”
    Taryn looks insulted. “My track team doesn’t call me Nerves of Steel for nothing.” Her sparkly brown eyes hold a dare. “How about you, Maggie—are you scared?”
    “No way.”
Yes way. Who are you fooling, Maggie MacKenzie?
    As we weave through the stream of people, I glance down side passages and check for doors that may lead to kennel areas. Meanwhile, Taryn’s talking a mile a minute. Maybe that’s her way of keeping calm. “Even my mom’s grandpa, the first African American to win gold medals forthe U of P’s track team, couldn’t run as fast as that Two Dog.”
    “Your great-grandfather won gold medals in track? That’s awesome,” I tell her—then hold up my hand. “Hear something?” Muted animal sounds reach my ears. “Do you hear a dog whining?”
    “From which direction?” asks Taryn.
    “Not sure.” As we walk, I tilt my head at various angles, trying to pinpoint the sound. Near a metal door marked PRIVATE, the whines and whimpers get louder.
“
Taryn, those aren’t happy sounds.” I hesitate, gathering up the courage to ignore the sign and open the door.
    Taryn beats me to it, flipping open the door and running down the first few steps. “C’mon, Maggie.”
    The dingy cellar smells of mildew, wet fur, and dog food. Rows of cages line the walls, filled with muzzled greyhounds. Some look emaciated. Some are agitated,