It was gone when Peter returned.

He stood near the dead mare, gallon jug of milk gathering condensation as it hung next to his leg, bag of carrots and box of sugar cubes awkwardly clutched in his other hand. He’d tried to be quiet on his return approach, but maybe he’d made too much noise.

He was in the right place: the dead animal was still there, a black cloud of flies settling on her eyes and crawling in and out of the hole in her head and on the wet ground where her foal had emerged into the world. He wanted to shoo them away but also wanted to vomit, so he turned away and began searching for the foal.

He tried to walk quietly, one foot in front of the other. He’d read somewhere that this was how the Indians did it. He didn’t know if that was true but it sounded true.

He spent the better part of the afternoon looking, occasionally returning to where the mass of flies sounded like a vicious bandsaw. The shadows grew longer.

He had no choice: his mom would be making dinner. It was time to head back.