Trinity readily agrees so I walk her through knowing which feed bucket goes to which horse—they’re color-coded—and how much feed to give. After we’ve scooped everything out, we take the buckets to the stalls and refill all the water buckets as well as distribute flakes of hay for the horses to munch on.
“I’ve already mucked the stalls, and you can decide if you’d like to do that in the morning after you turn the horses outto pasture or in the evening before you bring them back in, but the stalls need to be cleaned every day.” I point out where the wheelbarrow, pitchfork, and sawdust are. “Any questions so far?” I ask.
Trinity looks around, seeming to consider if there’s anything she needs more clarification on. “Levi said you trade rent for the work you do here. I didn’t know arrangements like that even existed. How’d you hear about it?”
“Word of mouth.” I brush off a piece of hay clinging to my shirt. “My parents work in the private service industry and caught wind of this opportunity. I was able to meet with the Andersons before they put any official notices out, and I’ve been living and working here ever since.” I turn toward the stairs that lead to my apartment above the stables. “Speaking of, would you like to look around the living area? See where you’ll be staying?”
“Lead the way.”
It’s a studio-style apartment, so it doesn’t take too long to show Trinity the features. I assure her I’ll have clean sheets on the bed for her and that she’s more than welcome to help herself to anything I have in the fridge while she’s there. She’s looking at some framed photography I have hanging on the wall when I glance down at my watch and notice the time.
“We should head back down. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson will be down from the main house any minute.”
Trinity follows me out of the apartment and down the stairs. I’m introducing her to the horses in the pasture, pointing out the different colored halters they wear that match the feed buckets and the name plaques on the stall doors when footsteps crunch on the gravel behind us. I turn and smile at my employers/landlords/friends.
“Trinity Redding, I’d like you to meet Alan and MaryAnn Anderson.”
They shake hands, smiling in greeting at one another.
“It’s so nice to meet you, my dear,” MaryAnn says, all politeness and sincerity. “Martha tells us you go to Clemson?”
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“What’s your major?” Alan asks.
“Occupational therapy, sir.”
“Well now, that’s terrific.” MaryAnn beams. “Alan and I have been talking for years about looking into using our horses for therapeutic needs. Do you know anything about that?”
Trinity’s grin widens. “I would love to use hippotherapy when I’m fully licensed.”
“Is that what it’s called?” MaryAnn asks.
“Hippotherapy refers to the practice that occupational and physical therapists use that incorporates a horse’s movement to engage sensory, neuromotor, and cognitive systems,” Trinity explains.
“Oh, I’d love to learn more,” MaryAnn says.
Trinity launches into the subject with the enthusiasm of a Trekkie at Comic-Con. Both Alan and MaryAnn seem thoroughly engrossed, and I relax a bit now that everyone seems to be hitting it off. The Andersons are sweet people. They usually don’t mind if I take a couple of days off here and there, and they look after the horses themselves while I’m away, but they’re also going out of town the same time I am, so it’s fortuitous that Trinity is available and the Andersons are comfortable with her.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. I don’t want to be rude. It buzzes again. And again. Who’s trying to get ahold of me so impatiently?
When it buzzes a fifth time, I start to worry. Is there an emergency? Has something happened to Mom or Dad? No, they’d call, not text. It buzzes again.
Well, now my curiosity is overpowering my good manners. I glance at Trinity and the Andersons. They seem to be in their own little bubble discussing all things equine therapy. I takea half step back out of our small circle and turn away slightly, pulling my phone out of my pocket. There are two separate text notification bubbles, so all that buzzing hadn’t come from one person. I tap on the first one.
Mom
Can you come for dinner an hour earlier than planned tomorrow?
I quickly type outyeah, that’s fine, then send the message and open the other unread text thread.
Julien
*picture of a pigeon perched on the windshield wipers of a parked school bus*
Julien
Do you see this? Is this a children’s book come to life right now?
