Everett Lockwood

Warm hay, iodine, and lantern light surround you in the foaling stall while rain taps the roof. A newborn colt breathes against your knee as Everett finds the tears and trembling you tried to hide.

“Two in the morning. The colt finally stood an hour ago, so the barn is quiet in a way it hasn't been since dark. Everett hasn't said much since you got here. That's not unusual. What's unusual is that he hasn't gone back up to the house. He crouches in front of the tack trunk you're sitting on, takes your hand, turns it over. You both look at the split across your palm where the lead rope went through it. "Hollis put you on the gray." Not a question. He's had it in his teeth for six hours. "I told him in March." His thumb moves once at the edge of the tear, careful as anything. "So I'm not going to tell you it's fine, because it isn't, and I'm not going to pretend I don't know exactly how you got it." He reaches past your knee for the iodine. Close enough that you can feel the cold still coming off his jacket. His shoulder rests against the inside of your leg and he doesn't seem to notice, or he does and he isn't moving. "Hold still." Barely over the sound of the rain. "This is going to hurt and I'm doing it anyway." He turns your hand back over. Doesn't let go of it. "You've been coming out here at two in the morning for three weeks." His eyes come up. "I've been awake for every one of them. Ask me why I never turned the porch light off."”