Warning: This story contains a graphic image.

Mack Beggs steps from his house in Euless, Texas, gripping the leash attached to Dani, who, at 94 pounds, is the largest of his seven dogs. Mack, only 20 pounds heavier than his bullador, strains to get her into the back of his grandmother Nancy's car. Dani seems to know they're headed to the coin-op car wash for a bath.

Nancy watches from her front porch, a cluster of plants behind her covered by plastic hanging from the gutter; this January is unseasonably harsh, and she's trying to protect them. She calls out to Mack to buy cleaning supplies. He needs to scrub the caked mud from the interior of his Scion, which had been in a tow yard since he drove it off the road last month. Nancy had been the one to pick up the Scion that afternoon, securing the bumper with plastic fasteners -- she isn't going to be the one to clean it.

Nancy hopes time away from his car has refocused Mack. In three weeks, he'll defend his 6A 110-pound girls' wrestling state title. Mack, 19, is a transgender boy who wrestles girls because the Texas high school athletic association, the University Interscholastic League (UIL), determines gender strictly by birth certificate, a policy approved in 2016 by 586 of 620 superintendents. Mack's certificate reads "female."

The Texas policy contrasts Connecticut's, which allows transgender kids like Andraya Yearwood to compete with whom they identify. Andraya, 16, is a transgender girl who won the 2017 Class M outdoor state titles in the 100 and 200 meters as a freshman. As Mack preps for his tourney, Andraya also prepares for another title run, in indoor track. The two will compete the same weekend, 1,680 miles apart.

Mack, Andraya and transgender athletes like them are focal points in a fight over the future of sports. In events designed to be binary, how does a school, league or governing body deal with athletes who don't neatly check one of the boxes? All transgender athletes face barriers -- controversies over bathrooms and locker rooms, adoption of non-inclusive policies, overwhelming social pressures -- but they differ depending on the state where they live.

The debate is dominated by fear -- of the unknown, of the misunderstood, of shifting public opinion. Parents fear that Andraya and Mack, who is undergoing hormone replacement therapy (HRT), have unfair advantages. Administrators fear that having athletes identify their own gender creates an entanglement of rules. Legislators fear that this distorts the very essence of sport.

Mack's and Andraya's families have anxiety too. The thought of a "crazy person with a gun or a knife" coming after Mack keeps Nancy, a retired police officer, up at night. "I fear for his safety," she says. "And not just his but all of these kids that come out of the closet. I pray nobody messes with them."

The list of people Nancy sees messing with her grandson extends to the statehouse. Both Mack and Andraya have been repeatedly mentioned on the state Senate chamber floor, as Texas legislators consider bills that will limit transgender athletes. But she and Mack and Andraya know there's no better way to confront those fears than to tell their stories.

UNDER A SUNLESS sky in New Britain, Connecticut, Andraya Yearwood settles into her blocks. It's May 30, 2017, and the 100-meter final at the Class M state meet is set to begin. The question on most everyone's mind isn't whether Andraya will win but if she even belongs on the track. Not that anyone admits it.

After Cromwell lost a 4x100 -- anchored by Andraya -- to Nathan Hale-Ray in the regular season, Hale-Ray celebrated far more than in any other event of the day. When asked about the raucous response, a parent looked at Andraya on the track and said, "They had some really stiff competition."

In New Britain, the crowd focuses as the runners prepare to start. A group of boys pushes to the front rail of the bleachers, and conversations grow quiet among the few hundred fans.

“I just think that some people are making it into a bigger deal than it needs to be.” Andraya Yearwood

Andraya isn't the first transgender athlete in Connecticut, but she's the most high-profile. In her first meet of the season, she ran an 11.9 100, just half a second off the state record. Personal medical details became public; though she's transitioned socially, the press reveals Andraya had yet to begin her hormone therapy. That led to open critiques of her looks, from local coverage in the Hartford Courant to national rebuke from Breitbart.

Andraya sees these comments. Against the advice of her parents, she has a penchant for Googling her name. She sees how often she is accused of cheating, of masquerading as a girl to win races. Andraya isn't sure why there's an uproar. She wants to run against girls because she is one, not to game the system. "There are people that are faster than me," Andraya says. "I just think that some people are making it into a bigger deal than it needs to be."

There is no national policy governing transgender participation in high school sports. Connecticut is one of 17 states, plus the District of Columbia, that do not require medical or legal intervention. Nine require birth certificate modification and/or medical intervention in the form of surgery. Five have no policy. The remaining 19 states enact various other policies. Ten require school districts to decide, but some of those allow for appeals to a state association. In eight states, high school associations determine eligibility for transgender students, either through a ruling by an executive director or through a committee/hearing officer. One state, North Dakota, only provides guidance on hormone replacement therapy but outlines no process to determine eligibility under that guidance.

Connecticut allows schools and districts to submit rosters for all gender-specific sports, believing those closest to the kids can best determine teams. But the Connecticut Interscholastic Athletic Conference (CIAC) clearly instructs that gender identity must be respected. "We support students no matter who they are, and we want to give them the easiest access to opportunity without any discrimination in the way," CIAC executive director Karissa Niehoff says.

The starter's pistol sounds, and Andraya charges forward. She finishes first, in 12.66 seconds. Whispers subside, but eyes from the stands watch Andraya leave the track. The only sprinter who speaks to her is Erika Michie, who was third. She claps Andraya's back: "See, girl! I told you that you had this."