The ones who’ve given up are the hardest to bring back.
The fighters—the ones who kick and bite and pin their ears—those are easy.
They’ve still got something left.
It’s the quiet ones that break your heart.
The ones who’ve decided the world is just something that happens to them.
I know the feeling.
The barn is dim and warm. Smell of hay and pine shavings and the low earthy scent of horses at rest.
Outside, the Texas sky is just starting to crack along the eastern edge—a thin line of gray-gold that’ll bleed into pink if the clouds cooperate.
This is my favorite hour.
Before the ranch wakes up.
Before the brothers start moving through the compound.
Before I have to be Banshee instead of just the quiet man in the barn who’d rather talk to broken animals than people.
The bay’s ears flick toward me.
One rotation, then back. Testing.
He’s been doing that since I sat down—checking to see if I’m still here, whether I’ve moved, whether I’m a threat.
Every time he looks, I’m exactly where I was.
Same bucket. Same posture. Same slow breathing.
That’s the whole game.
Consistency. Showing up and being the same thing every single time until the animal’s nervous system stops bracing for the hit that isn’t coming.
It takes days. Weeks, sometimes.
I’ve had horses that didn’t let me touch them for a month.
You can’t rush it. You can’t force it. You just have to sit in the dark with another living thing’s fear and wait for it to figure out you’re not going to add to it.
I’m good at waiting.
The bay shifts his weight, takes a half-step along the wall.
Not toward me—lateral, testing the space.
His nostrils flare, pulling in my scent.
Coffee. Leather. Hay.
Whatever a man smells like when he’s been sitting still long enough to become furniture.
I don’t look at him directly.
I keep my eyes on the ground, my body loose, everything in my posture saying the same thing I’ll say tomorrow and the day after that: I’m here. I’m not moving. Take your time.
