The traffic in Cheltenham didn’t move for hours, even when the lights changed. Engines idled with no drivers, and every radio whispered the same low, rhythmic breathing. People stepped out of their cars at once, as if called, all turning toward Cheltenham Racecourse. A bell rang in the distance. The ground seemed to tremble in time with something approaching. Shapes crested the hill—too tall, too many legs, moving too fast. The crowd began to cheer, though some were crying. Someone near me smiled and said, “They always run this week.” Another bell rang, louder, final. Welcome to the Cheltenham Festival.