The jockey is still mounted on Choirboy, but now the trainer has the reins. The owner’s wife is thinking: he looks so smug perched there, like an uppity squirrel. But he smells bad—worse than the horse. I’m going to get him fired.

Standing beside his wife, the owner, dressed in a buttery suit garnished with ketchup and mustard tie, thinks: I knew he could do it. I just knew it. Now we’ll enter him in the Derby for sure.

Daddy’s so happy, the owner’s daughter is thinking. I bet he’s going to get me a car for my birthday after all.

Out of the corner of his eye, the jockey regards the daughter. She thinks she so hot. The little pigeon. So hot shit! Deep down she want to fuck me. I’ll make her coo.

“Easy boy,” the trainer says to his horse. “Easy.” You’re sweating too much. But you’ll be all right. We’ll get you cooled down. Steady, now. Come on, let’s get this thing over with.

Choirboy, meanwhile, is thinking of the owner’s wife’s hat. Thinking how good it would be to eat it.

Of all these thoughts, this is the only one which comes to pass.