Chapter 4: Heel

On Monday morning I woke in the tack room, curled on a stack of saddle blankets with red clay on both feet.

A denim jacket lay over my shoulders.

It smelled of horse liniment and clean soap, and it was not mine either.

I sat up, and my left heel stung.

There was a long scrape across it, packed with grit, and the blood had dried dark brown.

I did not remember walking out of the bunkhouse.

I never do.

It was the second morning in a row, in a second new place.

I decided to stop being embarrassed by it and get the cut cleaned.

The only light on at six was in the metal building behind the barn.

The sign on the door said LARGE ANIMAL, BENAVIDEZ.

I knocked, and a quiet voice said, "Come in."

Arlo stood at the sink in a gray work shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, washing his hands to the wrist.

A radio on the shelf played a conjunto accordion so low that I almost missed it.

The room smelled of iodine and hay and warm metal.

A long steel table stood in the middle of the floor, bright under the lamp.

"Good morning, Dessa," he said.

"I walked in my sleep again," I said.

"I cut my heel. Do you have a bandage? And whose jacket is this?"

He looked at the jacket on my arm and dried his hands.

"Mine," he said.

"It was cold."

That was the whole explanation, and I did not push.

"Sit," he said, and nodded at the steel table.

I hopped up on the edge, and it was cold under my thighs through Jolene's leggings.

He pulled a stool over and sat at my feet.

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