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thought, mental images flash of Daniel’s broken body. Remembered sounds of a human body pummeled distract me.
    Mom and Suzy plow down the riverbank through the drifted snow and onto the solid ice. Henry follows with reluctance. I have to pound him a bit with my heels. Surprised, he skitters on the ice past Mom to the other side. Laughing, I leave her behind. As I squeeze my legs, Henry, like a young colt new to snow, leaps up the far bank. On the opposite riding path, I let him out. His long legs leap, but then his pace slows. As snow starts to fall, Mom and Suzy catch up.
    Reaching a large open field beyond the trees, I slow Henry to a jog. A girl I don’t know well is there riding an Arabian lesson horse. She’s a freshman named Trish, Swaps-Stall-Cleaning-for-Ride-Time. She has trekked the gray through the snow, making a giant fox and geese circle with four spokes cutting across it. With a whoop, Mom sends Suzy into it. Like a little kid, she yells out, “I’m the fox!” Trish laughs and cues the gray into a canter, racing away from Mom on the tracks. I kick lazy Henry into the center point, spinning away from whatever direction Mom heads. She leaves off chasing the fast gray and races for me in the center. Surprised, Henry stumbles in the snow and Mom swipes at my helmet. Thump.
    â€œYou’re fox!” She screams.
    Henry takes off at a run. He almost plows into the caught-off-guard gray and I swing a hand at the freshman’s arm. Thump. Now she’s fox. With a great deal of skill, she slides the Arab into a stop with snow plowing up all around her, rolls back, and races past me for Mom and Suzy. Henry, once more the tired old fellow, saunters back to the center and do our best to stay out of their way as the faster and younger horses chase each other. Snow that started as a wisp turns to a trickle and then a steady shower.
    Tired of the game, we work our way, three abreast, along the riding path back into the woods. Fresh snow has filled the frozen riverbed. Mom frets. “I hope we didn’t leave too late.”
    â€œMe too. I don’t want to share a stall with Henry tonight. He’ll forget I’m there and step on me.”
    Mom laughs, but she pushes Suzy into a trot, breaking a snow path for us to follow.
    Swaps-Cleaning-Stalls-for-Ride-Time and the Arab fall in beside me. “Your mom is cool.” She pulls out her phone and reads her texts. “Yep. My mom’s ticked. The city stopped plowing. She’s worried about how to get me home. Our car is in the shop and not working. Usually I walk it, but in this mess…I’ll probably have to sleep in the common room.”
    I’d been kidding about sleeping in a stall. The stable common room is heated with a small diesel oil stove, but even cranked up, the damn thing makes you Mercury—boiling on one side, freezing on the other. Students do get caught in storms and have to sleep over, which is why the stable owner, Peggy, keeps some ratty-smelling sleeping bags in the supply closet.
    Entering the stable yard, the wind picks up to white out conditions, and Peggy is waiting for us. She doesn’t say hi or smile. She shouts through the wind, “You’re the last.”
    Thank God Mom’s with us or Peggy would give us hell. She opens the extra-wide human door with its window rather than the big sliding doors. She’s already locked those down against the weather. We dismount, leading the horses through and out of the cold wind. The storm’s roar gives way to metal roof creaks. Horse hooves thump on the aisleway. There’s a special smell when you enter a stable—hay, wood shavings, underlying astringents from horse liniment, and yes, horse hair and manure, but it’s not an overwhelming gag like cattle or hogs give off. It’s kind of sweet and earthy.
    We set to work unsaddling the horses and bed them down. Swaps-Stall-Cleaning-For-Ride-Time looks scared. I say,