The rope settles perfectly around the horns.
“Hah!” I yell, jerking the slack.
It’s a good catch. Clean.
Billy is leaning on the fence, watching. He’s not smiling, but his shoulders are less rigid. He climbs over the rail and walks toward the chute where we keep the mechanical steer.
“You want a moving target?” he calls out. “I’ll run the machine.”
“Do it.”
The engine coughs and sputters to life. The mechanical steer jerks forward, dragging the rope behind it.
I nudge Bandit. We take off. The wind rushes past my face. The world narrows down to the rope, the target, the rhythm of the horse’s hooves.
I swing. I throw.
I miss.
The rope lands in the dirt. I curse, re-coiling.
“Your elbow dropped,” Billy shouts over the engine noise. “Keep it up!”
I turn Bandit around. We go again.
And again.
And again.
By the seventh run, my arm is burning. Sweat is dripping into my eyes. But I’m hitting the mark every time.
The frustration bleeds out of me with every throw. The fear of the parasite, the worry about Sedona, the anger at Tripp—it all fades into the background noise.
We practice for an hour. The sun dips below the horizon, leaving the sky a deep, inky blue.
Seth sits on the top rail, watching us. He’s not looking at the ledger anymore. He’s just watching his brothers work.
It feels almost normal. Like a normal Friday evening before everything went to hell.
I’m feeling good. I’m feeling like maybe we’re going to be okay.
Then the radio on Seth’s hip crackles to life.
It’s the shrill, static-filled sound of the CDC frequency.
“Carson residence. This is Dr. Thorne. Come in.”
Seth grabs the radio. “Go ahead, Dr. Thorne.”
“We have a situation. North pasture. We need extra hands. Your brothers. Now.”
I pull Bandit to a halt. The good feeling evaporates instantly.
“What is it?” Billy asks, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Seth’s face is pale in the twilight. “North pasture. They need help.”
Billy doesn’t hesitate. He vaults the fence and sprints toward the truck.
