As I adjust back into my tilting lean, she shifts to look at me. “Didn’t think you’d be home so soon, I’m guessing.”
“Yeah. Home sweet home.”
We drive toward the cages. We call them the stalls, but after experiencing the Walsh barn—they’re clearly cages. A large patch of dirt we use to mount the dragons looms in front of us. With a jerk, the car stops andFarren knocks into me. Neither of us acknowledge the contact because all our attention fixates on the orange Sprinter laying on the ground before us. The arch of his back contorts upward, all wrong, wings bent to the side unmoving.
“Oh no,” Dr. Walsh whispers as he creaks open the door.
Farren rushes out of the car, voice taut as she answers. “I thought it was only a broken wing.”
I exit the truck on wobbly legs. It’s not Hort, I remind myself. Hort’s safe. But his brother, Hendrix, lays broken in a way I’ve never seen before.
Dragons plate themselves in metal when they are afraid or in pain, pinpointing where they feel vulnerable and thus protecting themselves. Therefore, one would expect the silver arching over the misshapen back. Instead, the metal only covers from nose to neck. And it’s—I’ve never seen anything like this before—it’s flashing. Like a seizure, the silver plating grows and retreats as if he’s trying to switch himself on.
In the corner, another dragon roars. Hendrix’s mom, Bex. A retired Sprinter bred to produce the fastest racers. She’s sheeted in silver, not scared for herself, but for her baby. Two trainers, Rohan and Talia, hold her back with a head harness, trying to coax her away from the scene. Her shrieks echo across the arena, making even the placid lake ripple. I’ve heard Bex irritated before, but never have I heard this screeching anguish.
I’m so consumed by the agony I don’t notice Colm Ditters’s presence until he’s blocking Farren. He’s wet. He’s shirtless. And he doesn’t have a scratch on him.
Colm is Hendrix’s newest rider. Of course it’s Colm Ditter’s dragon hurt to this extent. Because Ditters is an average rider who thinks he’s as good as me. That sounds arrogant, but the proof lays in front of us, the dragon suffering because of his incompetence.
However, except in riding skill, Ditters is everything I’m not. Tall, lean, charismatic. He has no problem, even in this wretched moment, approaching Farren. “Hey, looking good without the glasses, Farren.”
She simply crosses her arms. “And you look… unscathed.”
He smiles, thinking she meant it as a compliment. “I know how to bail, unlike this guy.” He tilts his head toward me.
“Good for you,” she says as she brushes past him.
“You could still give me mouth-to-mouth though,” he calls after her.
She glances back with disgust before jogging to Hendrix. A small part of me wonders if she thinks of saving me with that same repulsion.
I try to step around Colm. I’m not a talker in general. Ditters though, I’ve always tried to ignore.
Yet, like always, he engages me all the same. “Did you just get out of the Walshes’ truck?” He laughs. “Didn’t know breaking your arm meant you’d have to work with the bottom of the food chain.”
Like always, I want to punch him. I also want to iterate the Walshes are coppers, still way above average when compared to the majority of the population. But that further feeds into hierarchy and implies that if they were iron-crafters I’d have to accept the insult. Accept that Farren Walsh is beneath me when in truth she’s better than us both. Compassionate instead of conceited, caring instead of callous or cold.
“Seems like you should be more worried about yourself right now.”
Colm glances at Hendrix. “Yeah, it sucks. I was training him on tight turns and his wing gave out. Luckily, I did bail, or it would have been thetwobest riders out for the season.”
I only glare and bump his shoulder as I pass. He’s delusional if he thinks he’s even second best.
As I near Hendrix, I realize what I should have asked in the truck. What am I supposed to do, because Dr. Walsh and Farren work as a perfect team. Farren calls out Hendrix’s heart rate and pupil dilation. Dr. Walsh examines the shoulder blades, the point that bows unnaturally.
Any suggestion or offer to help feels like an intrusion. So, I stand and watch.
I don’t quite expect my father to greet me or be ecstatic I’m back after one day away, but his “Why have you come?” stings just the same. However, I know the question is rhetorical. The instant he looks away, he’llhave forgotten my existence. One huge upside to the broken arm. Because if I’m not a rider, if I’m not training, then to him, there’s no point to me.
Dr. Walsh keeps his eyes on the flashing metal and arched back. Then he encircles Hendrix with a copper blade, poking his legs, his wings, his chest. No reaction.
“What happened?” Dr. Walsh calls out in his soft voice. “I was told it was a broken wing.”
Mr. Ditters, Colm’s father, steps forward. A bitter-faced man with enough etiquette and sense to fill a teaspoon. “We think it is.”
Dr. Walsh jerks like he’s been slapped. “It’s a brokenback, Mr. Ditters.”
Colm’s dad has the audacity to look appalled. “Rounds out to be about the same thing, right?”
