Cody and I look to one another. Fear strikes us simultaneously. We race to the barn leaving a smog of dust behind, leap from our saddles and run around to the back. Here, I realize that I’ve been holding my breath in fear. Finally exhaling, I take a deep gulp for oxygen. We see coaches old mangy dog, Marge, coming to greet us. The other two woolly dogs lay quietly outside the circular pen of aged pine poles, whining.

To our dismay, we discover coach Phillip face down in the center of the pen. A black colt paws the dirt two strides away. Its saddle clinging to the side of his sweaty belly and his bridle, torn free from his ear’s, dangles from his neck. “Cody, run to the house. Call an ambulance,” I yell as I open the wooden gate.

Standing frozen in imaginary clay, he doesn’t move.

“Go, Cody! To the house. Call nine-one-one! He’s hurt bad and been here like this all morning. Maybe, since yesterday. Hurry!” I shout.

Cody leaps to a trans-like sprint; one young shaggy dog running behind, leaping and barking. I hear the screen door slam.

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