Imports | Polytrack

The next morning, Leo was gone. The night supervisor’s station was empty, a half-drunk cup of coffee still warm. Security footage showed him walking onto the warehouse floor at 3:17 a.m., approaching Roll 447D, and then—nothing. The camera glitched for six seconds. When the picture returned, Leo was not there. Neither was the roll.

She picked it up with her gloved hand. The key was warm. Impossible, given that the roll had been in a refrigerated container for eleven days. polytrack imports

She packed the key, her phone, and a change of clothes. On her way out, she checked the shipping log she’d photocopied from the warehouse. Twenty-seven tracks in North America had received polytrack from the Rotterdam facility in the past eighteen months. Twenty-seven ovals of grey composite, laid down over dirt and stone, absorbing the thunder of hooves. The next morning, Leo was gone

“Work. Why?”

“No kidding.”

Hoofbeats. But the street was asphalt. And there were no horses for miles. The camera glitched for six seconds