She’s already put on a considerable amount of weight, and the burns on her neck are starting to heal. Her tail was singed off right up to the bone, and her black face is covered in scars. Some so deep fur can’t grow back. Others are lined with white fur. Her ribs show with each movement. She is depressed and lonely, and I know she needs to bond with someone, and that someone should be me. It has to be me. I’m the only one. But I can’t.

Looking at Phoenix makes the burns on my body tingle with pain. Looking at her reminds me of the smoke filling my lungs, of the roof flaking apart above us, bit by burning bit, until it collapsed. Looking at her is painful.

She’s only three, but her eyes are those of an old horse. A horse who has lived in agony, in fear. I’ve seen that exact look before—a look that says “I give up”. It’s a look I battle every day not to wear on my own face.

“You’re a good girl,” I tell her and stick my hand out. Phoenix lifts her head, stretching her neck out to sniff my fingers. She doesn’t come any closer. She won’t come any closer. “In time,” I say and take a step back. I stretch my arms over my head and look around the barn. Mom would never let it get this untidy.

It’s a small barn, with six stalls and a heated room that houses grain, saddles, and the various supplies needed. I spent my childhood out here. This place has been my safe haven, my escape. And it still is. Being in here used to be my second favorite place, the first being on a horse. I haven’t ridden since Mom…since she left. Every day I think about riding. And every day I don’t.

I slide open the stall door, needing to change the padded bandages and clean her wounds. Phoenix spooks and shies away.

“It’s okay,” I say and reach into my pocket, pulling out a treat.

Her nostrils flare as she inhales the scent of the treat. I keep my hand out and walk to her. She snatches the treat and turns her head. “It’s okay,” I repeat and put one hand on her neck. Spraying her wounds with antiseptic spray is a challenge. I don’t want to chase her around. Instead, we do this treat-per-spray thing that seems to be working.

She flinches when the cool mist hits her bare skin, but she doesn’t shy away. “Good girl,” I praise. I mist her with the spray again. I get the entire section of charred skin on her neck before she moves. “I know,” I say softly. “It hurts. I have burns too.”

She looks at me as if my words make sense. “You’ll get better. I am. Little by little.” I finish her treatment and then clean stalls and sweep the aisle before work. There are four horses at the barn right now. Shakespeare, which is my twenty-four year old retired show horse. Benny is Mom’s stubborn-as-hell thoroughbred. He is dark bay, tall, muscly, and gorgeous. We pulled him from the slaughter pen just minutes before he would have had his head bashed in and been strung up for meat. Sundance was taken from a neglectful home months ago. He’s put on more than enough weight and is physically sound. Mom had been working with him, getting him broken to ride so she could find him a new home. His training came to a screeching halt after the accident.

Phoenix made horse number four.

We kept the barn as empty as possible, besides Shakespeare and Benny. That’s what Mom did. Saved horses, horses no one wanted, horses left for dead. She gave them a second chance, healing them mentally and physically. She trained them, made sure they were ready, and then found them forever homes. Benny wasn’t supposed to stay, but Mom was never able to get him out of his biting habit…or his habit of chewing hair. She couldn’t let him go to a home knowing he might randomly bite you or eat your hair any chance he got.

I go inside, calling Chrissy in from the back pasture, groaning when I see I only have thirty minutes before I have to get ready for work. I grab my ponytail and sniff my hair. Yep. I smell like horse. I have to take a shower.

“Hey, girl,” Shondra says as I speedwalk through the lobby. Her nails end an inch past her fingers and are painted a fiery orange, matching the god-awful color of her eyeshadow. Her hair is up in a topknot, and she has on a dress that clings to her thin body. “How are you?”

Her green eyes meet mine, and I know her question is genuine. Word got out that I recently lost my mom and am struggling with the farm. Everyone pities me.

I fucking hate it.

Pity doesn’t do a damned thing. If they feel so bad, then bring me a bag of oats or buy a few bales of hay. I put on my fake smile.

“I’m okay,” I say. “Hanging in there.”

“Good. A few of us are going out for drinks. Weebly lets us out early on Fridays if we get our shit done on time,” she says.

“Oh, that’s good to know.” It’s the end of my first week. And no, I didn’t apply anywhere else. This is the closest press, and I’m barely making it now with a ten-minute drive into town for work.

“Want to come with?” she asks. “We’re just going to Cronie’s. Nothing fancy,” she adds with a shrug.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I have plans with a friend tonight. Maybe next time?”

“Sure thing.” She taps her acrylic nails on her desk and bites her lip, looking out the window. I go through the door into the workroom and take my seat at my desk. It’s in the back, close to Mr. Weebly’s office. I wonder if he did that on purpose.

There aren’t a ton of people working at the Yellowstone River Times, and most have been here for years. No one is rude at all, but I don’t fit into their tight-knit group. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I have no desire to make new friends.

Am I closing myself off? Maybe. Do I care? Not at all.

I fire up the computer and get to work, going through the edits of the article I wrote. My topics are assigned, and hardly any of them are newsworthy. Today, I read through my passage about Ginger Hetwick turning one hundred. I went and visited her in the nursing home two towns over. She’s wheelchair bound and has dementia. She couldn’t answer any of my questions.

I sigh as I approve the edits and send it back. It will appear in the Sunday paper. How much time has to pass before I can start speaking up, start telling Mr. Weebly that these articles aren’t the ones I want to write? It’s my first job. I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t want to come off as a know-it-all who just graduated. Everyone starts somewhere. Plus, I really need the money. I can’t afford to get in bad graces with my boss until I have something saved up.

My mind wanders to Phoenix, and the scars on my side start to burn. Suddenly I’m smelling smoke, hearing the horrible screeches of dying horses. Black surrounds me and I’m yelling out for Mom. I can’t see and I can hardly breathe. I scream for her between coughs.

And then she’s there, leading Phoenix through the billowing darkness. Her mane is on fire. It’s one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever seen. Mom tells me to go, to get outside to safety. I remember nodding and pulling off my jacket. I throw it over Phoenix’s mane and smother the flames. I hook my arm over the frail horse and she leads me out.

She saves me.

But it’s too late for Mom.

And now I’m sitting here at my desk, tears running down my face in black streams from my makeup. I tip my head, causing my shoulder-length dark brown hair to fall into my eyes. I flatten my hands on the desk, feeling the cool metal surface. I’m not in the barn. I’m here, at work. The smoke still wafts around me, the scent of charred flesh poignant in the air. My stomach churns and I shoot up, unsure if I’ll make it to the bathroom in time before I get sick.

I run through the workroom, aware of the stares I’m getting, and dash into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I put both hands on the sink and lean over. Instead of vomit, a sob comes out of me. I suck it back. I am not going to cry at work. My body shakes as I hold it in, tears falling down my face.