They were in a shady spot on the west side of the backstretch of Oaklawn Park's racetrack, on a hill perhaps twenty feet off the track. Rock had never noticed it before. Greta, a 25-year-old retired jockey Rock had somewhat adored for years, sat beside two fifty-year-old female riders and a small, frail, deeply wrinkled old man. They each held bottles of soft drinks, beaded with water, apparently drawn from a nearby wooden trough filled with ice and dozens of bottles of Coke, Pepsi, and Dr. Pepper.
As Rock walked toward them, Greta glanced his way, but her expression displayed nothing, a reaction that in no way surprised him.
"Hi y'all," Rock said. "Greta, is there any chance I could take one of those Cokes?"
"They're for the workers," she said.
It was exactly the response Rock expected, but after a pause of a few seconds, Greta stood and walked toward the drinks. As she reached into the slush, she said, "What do you want?"
"Oh, thanks. How 'bout a Dr. Pepper."
Greta handed a bottle to the man, who opened it with an old, rusty church-key opener. Rock took it from him and thought it tasted better than anything he had ever drunk.
"Wow," he said. "I didn't realize how thirsty I was."
As he drank, Rock watched Greta mount her horse and ride away.
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