I twist my mouth, keeping quiet.Just focus on his bicep and absolutely do not thank him for something he might not beaware he’s doing.He hates me enough that he wouldn’t really consider helping me out. Reading into something so small like this is idiotic.
It feels like we walk forever before finally approaching a small stable.
“He keeps his horses in here?” I blurt, disgust creeping in.
“Let’s see.”
Rowe sets the bin down outside the door and gives the rusted handle a tug. It creaks loudly, almost making me jump. He pulls the door open fully, letting the daylight flood into the dark space. I almost turn around and run right back to Walt when I see the state of the inside, my feet carrying me right past Rowe.
My nose turns up at the smell. I swallow a gag and search the closest wall for a light switch. I almost wish I didn’t find one. I’m vibrating with rage the second I flick it up and bright lights fill the space. My lungs constrict, making each breath feel like inhaling razor blades.
The three horses inside are kept far away from one another. With ten stalls total, there are three between each horse and an empty one at the end. I don’t know which one to look at first, so I alternate between all three, my pulse loud in my ears.
“Fuck.”
I ignore the rough curse and move further inside, stumbling to a stop in front of a chestnut-brown gelding with a patchy, dull coat and ribs starting to show beneath skin that should be sleek and shiny. His black mane is a matted mess of knots, and there’s a cut above his eye that’s partially scabbed over. He scuffs his hooves anxiously on the ground, favouring his front right over the left.
The water bucket in the stall is bone-dry, and the floor is?—
I turn and gag, lifting my wrist to cover my nose. The acrid smell is stuck to my skin already as I breathe through my mouth.Boots crunch on the filthy aisle floor, coming my way. I look back at the horse, my stomach too twisted up to ignore him.
There’s scabbed-over rain rot along his back and gunk clinging to the corner of his eye like dried glue. I reach for the gate, keeping my palm against the bars and my fingers from getting too close to him. His ears flick once, registering me being so close, but don’t fully rise.
“He’s got thrush,” I murmur tightly.
My voice shakes, and I hate it. I tighten my jaw and look at the stable ceiling, refusing to cry. This isn’t the right time. There are two other horses here that need help too. They’ve all been betrayed in the worst way. I know that without taking a single look at the two further inside.
I hear Rowe’s boots shuffle closer on the concrete before the soft click of his phone unlocking. A beat later, he’s handing it to me, the camera open.
“Take pictures,” he says, voice low.
Wordlessly, I take photo after photo. The curled hooves, ruined coat, sore eyes, I capture all of it. Even the water bucket and mess on the floor don’t get forgotten.
“Look at me.”
I tighten my hold on the camera and bring my eyes to his. The understanding waiting for me has my grip relaxing. He doesn’t say anything right away. We stand in silence for a while, just staring at one another as if neither of us wants to be the first to speak.
For a second, I wonder if he’s going to just leave. It wouldn’t surprise me if he did. It’s happened before. Instead, his voice lands softly. It’s the last thing I was expecting.
“He looks like Diesel did when you found him.”
The memory slams into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. I was younger, stupider, but just as furious when I stumbled upon him in a similar stable to this. And Rowe washere beside me the way he is now, a silent partner doing his best to keep his rage buried.
“I remember.”
“You cried for hours. Wouldn’t stop no matter what I did or said to try and help.”
My laugh is sudden, sharp. “You made fun of me for it.”
“Only because I didn’t know what else to do. I was a stupid fifteen-year-old.”
I look harder at him now.Deeper. His carefully blank expression hides everything that I’m feeling outright. Where I can’t help but scowl and mouth off, he looks away and chomps his tongue instead. He’s a professional at hiding his feelings, and right now, I know he’s considering which of us is better off making the decision on what we need to do to get these horses out of here.
“You’re not going to be able to walk away from this.” He tips his chin toward the gelding’s stall. “You’ve never been good at pretending you don’t give a shit, even when you think you’ve pulled it off.”
The silence stretches itself thin. I can’t look back at the horse, not yet. Not until I’ve come up with a way to save it.
“If you want to report Walt, I’ll back you,” Rowe adds.
