As It Should
THE PROTEIN BAR tastes like nothing. I chew anyway, counting each motion of my jaw.
My teeth mechanically break down what’s supposed to be peanut butter flavor. Could be cardboard, could be sawdust. Could be anything, really, and my body would still process it the same.
Slept for about three hours. One more than the previous night. Progress.
The wrapper crinkles as I fold it into a precise rectangle. Three folds lengthwise, two folds widthwise. The resulting packet fits perfectly between my thumb and forefinger. I place it in my pocket for disposal later.
My schedule calls for training with Ruin at 7:00 AM. I’m early. Being punctual means being early, and being early means being prepared. I have forty-one minutes to prepare .
Movement catches my eye. A figure leads a cream-colored horse into the round pen down the path in front of me. It’s a pair I’d recognize anywhere. By his walk, by her form.
Eli. Leading AP.
My jaw stops mid-chew for exactly two seconds before I force it to resume. I’ll swallow on three. Ready, one, two,… I manage on six.
I should go inside. Get a start on preparing Ruin’s tack, review today’s training plan. There are logical next steps to follow, but I remain seated, my eyes locked on the round pen where Eli and AP now stand in the center.
Morning light bathes them both in soft gold. AP’s cream coat gleams like satin, the picture of a healthy horse. Eli’s hand rests on her neck, his posture upright but not rigid. Standard for beginning groundwork.
He releases her to move around the perimeter. AP steps off, her gait smooth and precise as always. But after three steps, her rhythm falters. It’s subtle, enough that most people wouldn’t notice. But I do. The cadence is wrong, a metronome set two beats too slow.
AP circles the pen once. Twice. Her ears flick back more often than normal, suggesting discomfort or confusion.
Eli lifts his left hand, a subtle cue I’ve seen him use dozens of times before.
AP should transition from walk to trot, smooth as silk.
She doesn’t. She hesitates, her front right hoof pausing mid-stride before completing the step.
Her head turns slightly toward Eli, ears pricked forward, then back, then forward again. Question marks in equine form.
Eli repeats the cue. This time AP responds, picking up a trot that lacks her usual floating quality. Her movements are correct but mechanical, like she’s just forcing herself through the motions.
I recognize the effort. Been living it for the past… How many days? Maybe three. No, two. Maybe .
Not important. Should go inside. Right now. My hand tells my legs to move, double-tapping my thigh. They don’t.
Eli signals for a direction change. AP complies but overshoots the turn, then over-corrects. Her tail swishes sharply, three times in rapid succession. Irritation. Or confusion. Or both.
Cataloging the aberrations in her performance is easier than acknowledging what’s really happening.
Because what’s really happening is that the perfect communication between Eli and AP—the silent, seamless connection I witnessed every day since that miracle of my first day here—has developed static. Interference. Distance.
Eli does everything right. His cues are precise, his timing flawless. Can’t make out the words, but his voice, when he speaks to her, carries that same gentle authority it always has. His body language is clear, but there’s something missing. Something vital that AP clearly feels the absence of.
She transitions to a canter at Eli’s signal, but her ears keep swiveling back toward him, checking, making sure.
Her circles grow incrementally smaller with each lap, spiraling inward like she’s being pulled by an invisible force.
Like she’s trying to get closer to him even while following his directive to maintain distance.
I shift my position on the bench, leaning forward slightly.
Not out of interest. Just adjusting for optimal posture maintenance.
My hands rest on my knees, fingers spread at precisely equal distances.
Ten fingers. Ten anchors holding me to this bench when I should be inside preparing for my own session.
Eli signals for AP to halt. She does, but immediately half-turns toward him, head lowered, blowing out a breath that’s visible even from this distance. A plume of condensation in the cool morning air, holding the question made visible— where are you ?
Because he’s there but he’s not. His body occupies the physical space in that round pen, but something essential is missing.
Some vital spark that usually animates his every movement, that makes horses and humans alike gravitate toward him like he’s the sun and we’re all just planets caught in his orbit.
I know what’s missing. Since I’m the one who took it away.
Eli signals again, asking AP to resume walking. She does, but each step away from him seems to require more effort than the last. Her head keeps turning back, checking if he’s still there. Making sure he hasn’t disappeared completely.
It reminds me of those first sessions with Ruin, when he was too volatile to trust, too damaged to connect. The constant checking, the hypervigilance, the subtle signs of a creature that expects having to bolt or fight at any moment.
But this is AP—Eli’s old lady, his partner, the living embodiment of his history. She shouldn’t have those doubts. She never had them before, in all the months I’ve been watching them work together.
My sternum feels tight, like someone is pressing against it from the inside. I ignore it. Breathing continues at regular intervals. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Basic biology. Autonomic function.
Eli tries a different approach. He clicks his tongue twice—a sound that usually sends AP into a floating extended trot, her movements as precise as a dressage champion’s.
Today, she takes three uncertain steps before stopping altogether, head turning fully toward him now, eyes fixed on his face with an intensity I feel like it’s right here beside me.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t make any sharp movements. Just stands there, patient as always, waiting for her to process whatever is happening between them. His posture remains perfect—shoulders back, chin level, hands relaxed at his sides. The picture of equine handling expertise .
But I see it. A perfect machine with its heart removed. Like the one I saw in the mirror before leaving my room this morning.
Eli is hurting exactly as much. Containing everything in that still center that horses usually find so comforting, but that AP—the one who knows him—now clearly reads as wrong. Missing. Broken.
I should feel something about this. Guilt, maybe. Regret. Satisfaction that I’m not suffering alone. The categories all register, but they’re data. Input without emotional output. Cause and effect. I hurt Eli. Eli hurts. AP senses it. Communication fails. Simple equation.
My protein bar is gone. The wrapper is in my pocket.
My scheduled training session approaches.
These are the facts that should matter. These are the variables I should be processing.
Not the way Eli’s shoulders seem to carry invisible weight.
Not the way AP keeps searching his face for something that isn’t there.
In the round pen, the silent conversation between man and horse reaches some kind of breaking point. AP stops responding to cues altogether. She stands perfectly still, ears forward, eyes locked on Eli’s face. Then, without any signal I can detect, she walks directly toward him.
This isn’t part of the training pattern. This isn’t the carefully choreographed dance I’ve watched them perform countless times. This is AP going off-script, disregarding the established parameters, moving on her own authority toward the center of the pen. toward Eli.
He doesn’t stop her. Doesn’t redirect her. Just stands there as she approaches, her hooves steady and deliberate until she’s right in front of him, close enough that her breath stirs the hair under his hat. For a moment, neither moves.
And then AP does something I’ve never seen her do before. She lowers her head and presses her forehead directly against Eli’s chest, right over his heart.
Eli’s arms come up automatically, wrapping around her, fingers threading through her white mane. His forehead drops to rest against hers. His body curls forward slightly, like it’s collapsing. They stand like that for what my internal clock measures as forty-seven seconds.
I can’t see Eli’s face from this angle. Can’t tell if he’s speaking to her or if the communication passing between them is purely physical. But I can see the way his hands grip her mane, the white-knuckled tension in them, the slight tremor that runs through his shoulders.
The pressure in my chest increases. Breathing becomes more difficult. My heart rate accelerates. Physical symptoms of an emotional response.
I stand. The motion is smooth, controlled, my legs functioning as designed.
The path to the stable door is not long. I cover the distance in exactly seven steps. Each footfall lands with precise pressure—heel first, then ball of foot, then push off with toes. Textbook walking form.
As it should.