She’ll be afraid at first, but both horses are old and slow. For me, the problem won’t be riding itself—I can keep my seat in my uncle’s motor boat, even bouncing over a wake—but getting on the saddle. There are three counselors on duty: a girl counselor, the guy who played Monty Hall, and Carole. I guess somehow they will get me on.

Margie’s song stops abruptly. The riders are back.

“You want to be next?” Monty Hall asks Dolly.

“I’m not sure I have time. I really need to work on my novella. It’s really RISQUÉ—”

“Lovely lady, ride a few minutes with me and your writing will be all the better.”

In reply, she blabs something, who can tell whether consenting or what? They push her toward the barn and open a gate. Now I see. There’s a ramped platform that brings wheelchairs up to saddle-height. Monty gets on the horse first. When they unlatch Dolly from her chair, it takes all three to catch her bolting body and stuff it onto the saddle in front of Monty.

“Hang on tiiiiight!” she shrieks. Legs and arms spring out like four scared rattlesnakes striking at the four winds. Monty is big but no athlete. It takes all his strength to hold back her writhing and keep her from hitting the ground and bringing him down too. I look to Sara for a pertinent comment, but she keeps her eyes down on her drawing.

Monty’s breathing hard. “I’m gonna need both of you. One on each side. Be ready. She could go either way.” Sweat rolls from his curly hair down his dusty red face.

“We’ll be within hollering distance, okay?” Carole says. “Peggy Jo, can you please keep an eye on Mary? On everyone?”

“Sure, we’ll be fine.”

They disappear into the woods. Through the trees we hear the usual prattle about the sexy steamy risqué work-in-progress.

I ask Sara, “Will they have to hold you on?”

“I don’t ride.”

We sit and wait. Peggy Jo walks aussie Mary around the clearing. I wonder what’s wrong with Peggy Jo, the white walkie-talkie. I search for distinguishing physical characteristics. She’s of average height, average build, with medium brown chin-length hair. An ordinary face, just slightly thin, with a nose no pointier than most. Margie is singing again, on a new tack.

“Mary had a lil-ole lamb, lil-ole lamb, lil-ole lamb. Mary had a lil-ole lamb—The BIBLE—TELLS ME—SO!”

Sara says it almost prayerfully: “Lamb of God! Sweet Jesus!”

*   *   *