Dream is the one in pain, not me. But my stomach feels upset enough that I might as well have colic too. Mr. Harper tries to keep Dream walking, but it isn’t easy. She dances and sidesteps one minute. Then the next minute she stops—just puts on the brakes. Twice she tries to lie down in the middle of the road. But Mr. Harper jerks the rope up and won’t let her. All I hear is the clip-clip, clop-clop of Dream’s hooves. And each hoof beat shouts to me, It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. Bullet picks up on Dream’s nervousness. Colt has to turn him in little circles to calm him down. Finally we turn onto my road. “Looks like Doc beat us here.” Mr. Harper points to an old white pickup truck parked in front of my house. The truck door opens, and a girl with long, curly brown hair hops out. She looks like she could be in high school. She’s wearing cowboy boots, skinny jeans, and a pink T-shirt. I study her as she walks to the back of the truck and takes out a black bag.
