She closed her fist around the bit and started walking. Behind her, the warehouse lights flickered once, twice, then went out for good.
She searched for “polytrack missing” and found a forum for horse racing conspiracy theorists. Most of it was nonsense—magnets in the rails, timing chips in the fibers—but one thread from three years ago had a single reply: Check the polymer feedstock. Not all of it comes from tires. polytrack imports
The sign on the warehouse door said Polytrack Imports: Where Every Surface Tells a Story . It was a lie, mostly. The story was always the same one. She closed her fist around the bit and started walking
She pulled her hand back. Her palm was clean, no residue. But the warmth lingered, climbing up her wrist, her forearm, settling somewhere behind her sternum. Most of it was nonsense—magnets in the rails,
“Hey, Leo,” she called to the night supervisor. “You ever seen this before?”