The Conversation She Started

The dim light washed over his damp coat as the bitter morning cold bit at him—sharp and relentless, like a fox loosed in a henhouse. His head wobbled as he fought to find his balance, to gather the fragile strength in his legs. Beside him, his mother lay still… her warmth fading with each passing moment. An hour slipped by before a blanket was gently drawn over her, a quiet acknowledgment of what had been lost. The colt struggled to rise, legs trembling beneath him, each step uncertain. He stumbled, nearly falling, until a steady pair of hands caught and supported him.

Before he could understand, he was carried into a new space—soft, clean bedding beneath his small hooves, his body still damp from birth. He let out a soft, searching nicker, No answer. The hands that held him belonged to something unfamiliar, Not his mother, Not the warmth he was searching for. Casey, She worked quickly, gently drying him off as he wobbled and snorted in quiet protest. Her touch was careful, but her mind was already racing. He needed a foster mare, And he needed one fast.