“Alright,” Peter said with his hand pressed to the long, sticky scratch across his cheek. He counted his breaths – his first urge when the beast scratched him was to lash out at it or kick it.

But it probably didn’t know better, right? It was, like, a dumb horse with a horn in its head and a dead mother.

“So, you’re scared. Okay.”

The foal whined, suspicious eyes on Peter.

“Okay. I’m going to go home and get some food. Stay. Stay right here. Good boy. I’ll be back.”

He backed away slowly until the foal was out of view, then turned and ran home, leaping over rocks and roots ‘til he broke out of the woods. Through the gate in the wood fence and across the wide lawn, dodging dog turds scattered like landmines. Onto the porch and through the sliding glass door. Waldo, in for the day, ran to him, yipping and jumping.

Peter yanked the fridge open. Waldo began begging. Peter grabbed a bag of baby carrots and a gallon of milk. There were sugar cubes in the cabinet next to the teabags; he grabbed those, too.