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cats and tossing me a smile before going outside.
    I wolf down the pancakes, which turn out to be pretty good as long as I don’t think of it as biting off a horse’s ear. Then I head outside, glad for the alone time. I need to work things out. How am I going to learn to drive, and what can I drive to Chicago?
    As I walk toward the barn, I gaze up at the blue sky streaked with wisps of white.
    “Heads up!”
    I turn in time to see Hank riding a big, brown horse straight at me.
    “Dakota! Out of the way!” he shouts.
    I scurry backwards as horse and Hank race by me in a blur. A few yards up the hill, the horse stops. It trots in small circles for a while before settling to a prancing walk.
    My heart is still pounding at the close call, but I can’t take my gaze off the beautiful horse with a black mane that flows over its arched neck. It looks like the pictures I used to cut out of horse magazines and get in trouble for when the library reported on me. I think it’s a bay, but what I know about horses only comes from books.
    When I was kid, I went through a horse-crazy stage, which was pretty stupid since I’d never even touched a real horse. I used to beg my dad for a horse. He’d laugh. Then I begged him to take me somewhere so I could at least see a real horse. He’d raise his arm and pull it back, like he was going to hit me. I don’t have a single photo of my parents, but that’s the picture of Dad I carry around in my head: one arm raised, ready to hit, the other hand wrapped around a beer can.
    After Dad died and I went to live with the first foster family, I checked out horse books from the library and read every horse story I could find. I stopped when I realized I’d never own a horse of my own, no matter what I did.
    Hank rides up to me, but I can tell he’s in control now. He’s riding English—no saddle horn, and a four-rein bridle. “Dakota, I’m sorry. He just got away from me. You okay?”
    “I’m okay,” I answer, breathing in the smell of horse. It’s sweet and powerful. This is the closest I’ve ever been to a horse. I want to touch him so much.
    Hank reaches down and strokes the horse’s sweaty neck. The bay relaxes, but his eyes flick, like he’s watching for the enemy.
    Hank keeps scratching under the bay’s mane.
    The scratching stops, and Hank grins sheepishly at me. “I’m really sorry about that. I’m trying to work the kinks out of this fella so his owners won’t trade him in. He’s a good horse. He’s just never been handled right. I can’t believe they’ve been riding him with this bit. It’s a bad fit. He caught it between his teeth, held on, and that was that. I couldn’t control him. I’m switching to a snaffle.”
    “With the break in the middle?” I ask, picturing a page of bits from one of the library books I memorized when I was a kid.
    Hank looks surprised, but he doesn’t ask. “That’s the one.” He leans forward and smooths the bay’s mane.
    “He’s beautiful.” I reach to pet him, but he tosses his head.
    “Come on, Lancelot,” Hank coos. “You’re such a good boy. You’ve just got more than your share of bad habits. Not your fault.” Hank smiles at me. His mouth is crooked, in kind of a cute way. “This is the horse I wrote Winnie about yesterday.”
    “Maybe you better write her again,” I suggest, wondering if he’ll get the tease.
    He gets it. I can tell by his crooked grin. “You want to meet a truly great horse? Meet me in the barn.” He starts off on Lancelot, then pivots around. “Give me 15 minutes to cool this one down. Then I’ll introduce you to Starlight. She’s worth the wait.”
    “Starlight?” I repeat. “As in Starlight Animal Rescue?”
    “Yep!” he calls back. “Don’t go anywhere.”
    This reminds me that I need very much to go somewhere. Chicago. Why am I fooling with horses when what I really need is a car?
    Annie Coolidge’s red sports car is out of the question. She probably drives it to work