“Oh, Cort,” I said. If I avoided touching animals I could pretend I was part of the free-breathing world, one of the happy millions who hugged dogs and slept with cats and lay their cheeks against the smooth throats of horses. But my lungs wouldn’t take it; they shut down. We kept all horse clothes out of the house, and I’d made, across the lawn from Cort’s stables, a world apart from dander and hair.

“The blanket’s clean,” he said. “Just hold it around her for a minute. I’ll be right back.” He eased the filly off his lap. I held the blanket to her tiny body with both hands, careful not to let her touch my sleeves. Sleeves caught dander, brushed against my face, went inside other sleeves. Cort let the screen door swing shut behind him, and the filly started. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. I waited, bent over, and the foal held very still. I could feel her breathing. My legs began to ache, and my nose to itch. I had a client getting out of prison and I was due to pick her up that morning, ninety miles away.

Cort came back with white spots from the cold on his cheeks and a bowl of thick gray liquid in his bare hands.

“The antibodies in the first milk don’t last long,” he said. “It’s still too cold out there for her to nurse.” He grabbed a clean tea towel, soaked the twisted end of the cloth in the bowl and held it to the foal’s lips until she sucked at it halfheartedly. “Is there anything like a bottle here?” he asked.

I opened a cupboard: a wide-mouthed thermos. Tupperware. Measuring cups.

“This’ll work,” Cort said, dipping the cloth again in the sticky gray milk.

I washed my hands to the elbows and drove to the women’s prison in Billings. Cort stayed home with the foal.