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The handcuffs are dangling from my right hand still, swinging and whamming into my right leg, and I’m so weak that spots keep threatening my vision. My bare feet are already scraped and cut, and then I come down hard on a stick.
I bite off the involuntary whimper. I won’t risk any noise at all, other than the sound of my feet against the dry ground.
You will not pass out, Adriana. You will keep running and never look back.
Only, I know what’s back there. Any moment now, Boris will walk out of that hut, realize I’m missing, and take off after me. It spurs me to run faster.
But not fast enough.
I hear his shout when he discovers that I’m missing, and it’s not nearly far enough away. “I should’ve asked for more, God,” I whisper, my breaths coming quick and labored. “I should have asked—” Wait. I did. I asked for an escape car. I wipe sweat out of my eyes, and I smile.
“You brought just Boris, and he took me out to wash me off,” I whisper. “And then you got me the clothespin. You gave me a freebie with that phone call. Now where’s my escape car?”
But no car shows up. Boris is still shouting behind me, closing in, when something bursts through the copse and into view.
It’s a monstrously large white horse.
No bridle. No saddle. Not even a halter. He’s not shod. But he’s a grey, and not a young one. He’s practically white, with a black mane and tail, a black nose, and black legs.
His nostrils flare when he sees me.
Is this it? I’m laughing in my head. This is my escape vehicle?
“I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.” I step toward him slowly, one hand extended, fingers spread. “Hey there, boy. I need a ride.”
He shies back.
And then when he hears the shouting from not-nearly-far-enough behind us, instead of bolting, he whinnies.
Really, God? You couldn’t have at least given him a saddle? I have no idea if this horse is even broke. I could wind up dying here instead of there.
But I groan. “Alright, listen. There’s a maniac behind me, and he wants me dead. I made a bargain with God, and you’re what he sent, so you’re going to stand still and let me scramble up on your back.”
Even with my speech, I’m a little floored when he stands and lets me approach him. When I reach up and grab the mane at the top of his withers, he snorts, but he doesn’t move.
“Please don’t be a maniac,” I say. And then I say it over and over, like a chant or something. “I’m about to swing up.”
He stamps.
I take that as consent.
Then I jump up, my years as a jockey making it fairly simple in spite of his impressive height, pulling on the ridge at the top of his withers as hard as I can, and swinging my right leg over his back. He stays remarkably steady through it all, as if he’s been ridden before.
It makes sense. How many wild horses are really running around in this day and age?
“I can’t believe that worked.”
The shouting’s close now, and I reach forward and grab a handful of his mane with each hand. I didn’t consider the handcuffs, though, and they swing around and clock him on the side of his neck.
He jumps, and then he bolts.
The wrong direction.
“No,” I’m shouting. “Not that way!”
As if he can understand me, he wheels around the other direction, and I crouch low on his neck as he picks up speed.
I’ve been a jockey for nearly ten years, and I’ve never felt afraid of speed, but that’s on a controlled racetrack with steady footing. I’m not sure that I’ve ever gone as fast as I am right now, and chunks of sod and sticks and leaves are churning into the air and flying into my face as we race past.
