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“Hope he doesn’t end up like poorBarbaro,” he mumbled to himself, reflecting on the Kentucky Derby winner that had won with ease. Barbaro remained undefeated until he broke his hind leg in the Preakness, the second race in the quest for the Triple Crown of horse racing.
    Christian had felt sick when the horse ambulance carried Barbaro to a clinic. Wanting an expert’s opinion on the horse’s injury, he had made the rare call to his father.
    “He’s done,” Hank had said. “They should’ve put the colt down on the track.”
    His father’s matter-of-fact tone left Christian aggravated. “Dad, you don’t know for sure. They’re saying they might fix the leg with surgery.”
    “The break ain’t his biggest problem,” Hank said. “It’s his other three legs that will have to support his weight for months. The flesh inside the feet will give out and detach from the hoof wall. There’s no fix, and he’ll founder with laminitis. That’s what killed Secretariat.”
    “You could be wrong.” Christian hung up, more disturbed after the call than before it.
    Christian, along with a captivated nation, followed Barbaro’s medical roller coaster of hopes and setbacks in the media as the champion fought to survive. After nine months, the
New York Times, Washington Post
, and thousands of other publications ran the front page headline that Barbaro had lost his battle and was put down, his other three feet giving out from laminitis. His father had been right.
    In the late afternoon, Christian pulled into the backside of Calder Race Course, west of North Miami Beach near the Sun Life Stadium. He strolled into the office, believing it wouldn’t take long to check in. After handing over the colt’s health certificate and Coggins test, he faced what seemed like never-ending paperwork. He was photographed and given an ID for himself and his SUV so he could enter the stable area.
    A guard checked him at the gate, and he slowly drove the fifteen-mile-an-hour speed limit down the narrow, winding roads dottedwith shade trees and rows of barns with countless stalls. Between each barn and shed row was a grassy courtyard where a few horses were being led around and washed after a race. The mostly Hispanic grooms chatted in Spanish as the horses whinnied to one another. Chickens, cats, and an occasional goat or dog roamed freely among the Thoroughbreds and workers. The smell of hay and pine shavings filled the humid Miami air.
    Christian followed the road until he ended up in the parking lot near the smaller back training track that included an employee cafeteria, tack shop, and gift shop. The place had the makings of a small city that catered to horses.
    With the correct barn number in hand, he pulled into several parking spaces. He left his SUV and trailer to question an old man leaning against a large banyan tree.
    “Is this Ed Price’s barn?” Christian asked.
    “
Sí, señor
, Ed Price,” the man answered.
    “Is he here? I’m dropping off a horse.”
    “
No comprendo
.” He called in Spanish to a man in the shed row.
    The younger Hispanic man jogged to him. “Can I help you, sir?”
    “I’m dropping off a colt for Ed Price’s stable.”
    “You must be Mr. Roberts. I’ve been waiting for you. My name is Jorge. I will be seeing to your colt.”
    “Where’s Price? I want to speak to him.”
    “Mr. Price has a horse in the seventh race and is at the track, but I doubt he will return to his barn today,” Jorge said. “He should be here in the morning.” He opened the back of the trailer and declared about Hunter, “He is nice.” He untied the colt and backed him out of the trailer.
    Christian followed them under the shed row and into an empty stall. He held Hunter’s lead and stroked his neck while Jorge squatted and removed the shipping wraps from the colt’s legs. When the groom had finished, Hunter took a sip of water and then got down to chomping on hay. He seemed perfectly at ease in his new