Both her hands were hanging on to the edge of the door, the window rolled down, and her eyes wide. “Oh my God, Dad. This is amazing. It’s like a really old movie set.” She had a point. Across a weed-choked, picturesque pond was a hunkered-down, enormous shoebox of a building, all glass and weather-stained steel, surrounded by the vast acreage of an empty parking lot large enough to double as a decent-sized airport. “What is this place?” she asked. “It used to be the Green Mountain Race Track,” he explained. “And believe it or not, I used to work here.” She twisted around to face him. “Here? As what?” “Just a grunt,” he said dismissively. “It opened in the early 1960s as a Thoroughbred- and harness-racing track—it had stables enough to put up over eight hundred horses in its day. Quite the deal. Then, in the late seventies, it switched to greyhounds. That lasted maybe fifteen years, and it’s been looking for a purpose ever since.” He pointed out the window past her.
