' ℌold your hand flat. ' she tells him gently. nancy has been driving for a solid ten hours, but that's just fine. they're making good time, she and her trailer full of spotted little horses, some plain coated with simple blankets of white, as though puffs of clouds had collapsed and dashed themselves upon the quarters of the two year olds she hauls, others with splashes of cream smearing in with the chestnuts and bays and palominos. she'd regretted the last truck stop she'd passed sixty miles back. she wasn't about to pass this one too. she holds her cigarette carefully between her teeth as she takes his hand, helps him to unfurl his fingers and boast out his palm where the cookie of rolled oats and honey lay in wait for the snuffling muzzle of one in particular to have taken interest in the treat; a scruffy red roan with a face mottled with pinks and oranges, as though a painter had flung their soaking brush and the colt had caught the spray. her fingers scrape, rough as stone, but are not unkind. ' or else they'll think they're carrots. '
@lyonelb
