“Thanks. Got it at Austin Pride last year. They were a hot-ticket item, but I knew the guy handing them out.”
“Then you might want to put it away because I’m a notorious pen thief,” she jokes.
Laughing, I pull the pen away in a dramatic fashion.
She cracks up, taking it from me. “No, no! It’s accidental, I promise!”
I snatch it back from her playfully, and the three of us share a good, hard laugh that seems to reset the day. Even the dogs have gone from plotting our demise with a 1940s German accent to floppy-eared, head-tilted curiosity.
“Thanks, Bonnie. We’ve got everything we need to get started on the fence posts, and we’ll let you know when we’re done.”
“Sounds great, y’all,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “I have a cooler on the side of the house filled with waters and Gatorades, and there’s a little basket next to that with protein bars. Feel free to have as much of that as you like.”
I turn to Ant. “See? The day’s already looking better.”
He nods, resting his head on my shoulder. “It is, Nacho. Thanks for listening.”
4
BRAM
Ithank the translator and disconnect the Zoom call. My therapy sessions are usually with locals, but this was with Biyu, one of the trafficking victims we’re housing until we can find a way home for her.
We’re sitting in my office in the Equine Therapy and Rescue center, a beautiful barn built by the surrounding community. Levy also has a small office, but most of his work is in the cathedral-like indoor riding area surrounded by stables.
I’ve decorated my office with soothing prints and bright greenery, but my favorite feature is the window looking out on Levy’s equine therapy space. It has blinds that I allow patients to control, but they almost always leave it open enough to see the horses.
It’s all meant to lend a sense of peace, but I’m not sure how well that’s working today. I have a small couch on the wall opposite the window, paired with two comfortable chairs around a pretty rug. It works for a variety of comfortable seating options. Because I’m screen sharing to the flat-screen above the couch, we’re using the chairs, a setup I’m starting to call trauma theater.
I’m told Biyu is fifteen years old, but she’s not even five feet tall and severely underweight. The translator I used today is trained in translating trauma, and I used every last bit of her skills.
Smokey, the cat, has taken a liking to Biyu, and on days like this, she curls up at Biyu’s feet, a silent show of support. Today I learned Biyu was taken from her mountain village in China and somehow ended up in Dallas. Ours is one of the worst states for human trafficking, and today was particularly hard.
I’m usually able to separate myself from the issues, but something about her reminds me of the first time I met Ant. I don’t know all the details, and I’m committed to letting him come to me in his own time, but I’d bet my paycheck he and Biyu have a lot in common.
I pull up the translation app on my phone and speak into it, letting it talk for me.
“You did very well today. That must have been hard. You are brave.”
Smokey jumps into her lap, and she pets her while avoiding my eyes.
“Xiè xiè,” she says, which means thank you. The app translates that and her question. “Am I really going to see my family again?”
“We are trying very hard to arrange that.”
She looks up, her eyes meeting mine with a terrified sort of hope. She wants to believe me, but I doubt, given everything that’s happened to her, that trust comes easily.
She looks about as drained as I feel, so we leave my office and step up to the low fence that surrounds the riding area. Levy is leading one of the horses—Apple Jack, I think—in a circle, something he does when he knows I’ve got a particularly tough session.
Smokey climbs over the fence, then does her little circle eights around Levy’s and the horse’s feet before walking back toward us. You never can tell what a cat is thinking, but Levy follows her. Biyu’s eyes widen as Levy approaches with the tall, gentle horse.
“Would you like to pet him?” Levy asks into his translator app.
It takes a few tries to make himself understood with the infernal technology and some creative miming, but when she nods and timidly steps a little closer, we know she understands.
I have my doubts as her delicate fingers stroke up and down his nose, but Apple Jack stands absolutely still. Surprising Levy and me, she opens the gate, stepping off the walkway into the therapy space.
Running her hand down Apple Jack’s neck, she steps closer. I silently check in with Levy, and he nods. This is a good thing.
