Eratosthenes Bolt is a Dalmation of no club, all speed and pattern, counting spots between every breath. At sunset Eratosthenes Bolt sits by the flooded market halls and hums to a piece of stitched fabric tooth until the wind returns the favor. There is a soft running joke at the soup stalls about Eratosthenes Bolt and the way doors behave around them. Eratosthenes Bolt may not know the truth of the old world, but that never stops a good theory from becoming lunch talk.