It’s evening, and the horses are in the lots. The stable’s quiet as I run the last wheelbarrow full of manure up the ramp as fast as I can. It wobbles unsteadily, tips, and despite my straining, the wheelbarrow pitches into the wagon bed, along with the manure. I curse the wheelbarrow, curse the army, curse the maggoty bread and rotten salt pork they give us to eat, and most of all, I curse the dirty stalls. Worn out, I slump on the top of the ramp and bury my head in my arms. Pa ain’t let up. Sixteen stalls a day for five days adds up to . . . ? I search my mind, but can’t find the sum. To think, it wasn’t so long ago that Annabelle and me were counting up my purse winnings—over two hundred dollars, which Mister Giles put in a bank for me. Thoughts of Annabelle make me wonder what she’s doing. I ain’t seen her or Ma since I left them that first day. Every night I’m so weary I drop like a feed sack into my straw bed.
