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big as the family he grew up in, big enough for his own brood. Three generations of Langleys had lived there, raising cattle, growing grain, investing in oil, and eventually, racehorses and greyhounds.
    Dave sipped on sweetened ice tea and stretched, putting his long legs up on the porch railing. A sleek fawn greyhound with little spots of black and brown wandered over to Dave and nudged Dave’s hand for a scratch around the ears. “That’s a good boy, Dynamo,” Dave said, gently kneading the dog’s ears. The dog yawned and looked at Dave through its dark chocolate eyes, all sweetness.
    The email, from a close associate who lived a thousand miles away, was intriguing. “Dave: remember that race you wanted to run? You were looking for the best of the last few years? Mahoney’s dog Long Shot, the big female that was handed off and then adopted, was seen just a couple of days ago by a buddy of mine. Racing around a high school track, no less!”
    Dave had called and gotten details. Then he called Mahoney. “That old pup of yours, the one that won all that money, she’s still rarin’ to go.”
    Mahoney was less excited. “She can’t run anymore, the old gal’s not got the stamina to take to the track again.”
    But Langley wouldn’t be put off. “I told you I was going to bring the best together again. This is the race of the decade.”
    “Don’t you mean the race of the century?”
    “Naw. Things happen too fast now. You never know what’s going to happen next. I’ll just call it the race of the decade.”
    While they discussed the details of getting the best of the best together, Mahoney remained skeptical, but Dave was adamant: “It’ll be a great show for the racing industry and especially for the fans.”
    “For a cattle man you’ve got quite the flair for dramatization,” Mahoney said with a laugh.
    “Heck, my family hasn’t been in cattle for a long time,” said Dave. “But the flair you’ll see will be in us having just a regular rootin’ tootin’ wonderful race,” he added, letting his Texas drawl come out. “I think Long Shot and these other dogs we’ll track down still have a flair for running.”
    IN THE BASEMENT
    Jack had arranged some office furniture to create a study in the basement, a little alcove set in from the bottom of the stairs. A corkboard was covered with yellow and pink notes, pinned to the earth-coloured cork-like square butterflies. Cryptic writing in his father’s messy script revealed nothing to Danny, except that one was obviously a to-do list:
    • Clean eaves
    • Danny to judo
    • Susan to volleyball and track
    • Walk Long
    • Plan next steps
    He was always planning for a return to advertising, but Danny wondered whether it was ever going to happen. He looked at a plaque on the wall; gold lettering on a blue background, posted to a wood backing, and laminated:
    God grant me the serenity
    To accept the things I cannot change
    The Courage to change the things I can
    And the Wisdom to know the difference.
    It was the Alcoholics Anonymous credo.
    Danny once went with his mother to pick his father up after a meeting at a room in the local community centre. The exposed brick was whitewashed, the chairs were straight-backed and steel and very uncomfortable-looking, they made Danny wonder if the members of AA were made to suffer for the sins by sitting ramrod-straight for several hours, a few times a week. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like a sick, blue fog and burned his eyes. He could smell burnt coffee coming from an enormous stainless-steel coffee urn on a plastic tablecloth-covered side table. The recovering alcoholics all seemed pretty cheery, but some of them just seemed grateful for the companionship of others who were shaking what Dad called, “the monkey off their backs.”
    “Alcohol is like this little monkey that sits on your shoulder and whispers in your ear. You keep feeding it, hoping it will go away. But it chatters and screams in your ear and