The Papyrus

On the starting line they don't look at the track. They look at you. Or rather: they look at your beast, up and down, slowly, and a little light blinks.

Three seconds later they know your chamo has had a sore left hindquarter since Tuesday's race. They know it before you do.

The question nobody asks

Nobody in the desert knows who assembled them. The boss shrugs and cashes their entry fee. I asked three times. The third time, I was politely escorted to the gate.