Paftoo leads the horse towards the shelter. He can feel the storm is coming.
The horse knows it too. He jostles at Paftoo’s shoulder, jerking his head like a dog driven mad by fleas. When thunder and lightning glower in the clouds, the world is full of threats. They murmur to his nerves from the rustling hedge, the shadowed grass and the brooding sky.
On the horse’s front leg is a cut. Blood is trickling into his chestnut fur, which is mostly plastered in mud. Paftoo needs to hose it and check it’s not deep – if the horse will let him. He’s just as likely to swipe at Paftoo’s head with an irritated hoof.
The shelter is a lorry parked in the field, its back door down like a drawbridge. Once they’re inside, the horse will be calmer.
If he’ll go in. Horses are not known for being logical.
A gust of wind hisses through the trees. A bin tips over and clatters along the road. It’s not even close but the horse bounds forwards, sure it is coming to kill him. Paftoo is ready and tugs on the halter. It’s thin as a thread,
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