To the others, his eye was pure speculation now. There was no eye. Only the patch.

Ella had always wanted a paint. Now she had him. He was chocolate brown islands in a creamy sea. Black eyes. His hooves were petite and split-colored, same as the mane and tail dripping off him. His forelocks were black and wild. The tack was black leather and silver. He was beefy and slender both. Real truth is contradiction, yes and no at the same time. Saul had given her the colt halter-trained only, schooled him up to riding with great care and concern. He was a good husband, all in all. She’d bought the tack without telling him. It was the last of the money after Ginny bought her out. They’d bought the new truck first, red, five years of scratches now. They’d sold Grannie’s truck to a young couple who didn’t care about rust yet. The couple took the old goat too, part of the bargain for the truck, a friendly one with short bristly hair. The woman was charmed by his strange eyes and insisted. Ella still missed the goat sometimes. An animal can be more friend than a friend. He used to stare in the window at cards being played behind the curtain, trying to figure the meaning, why the quick movements of those magical human hands? Hearts and spades? The kids watching TV, braiding hair.

“Hey!” she called. “Ever heard of giddyap!”

The goat would wonder why he couldn’t come in. Ella had no answer for the goat. It had to do with power, she knew, since speech belongs to humans only, words to name things, to place value, to conquer. For the goat, birdseed would be gold. Gold would be dirt. So the man comes in the door. The goat stays out.

“God help me!”

He wouldn’t, and the men weren’t listening. Saul would repeat what he’d been repeating. “Going fast as we can, darlin’. Accuracy in trackin’ takes time.”

Same answer since the morning after, since her peachy heels and matching church dress, since that burn barrel. Imagine thinking she’d make it to church! She spurred the paint at her own foolishness. He bucked and she spurred him. She blocked the dress out of her mind, and the burn barrel too, blocked it. Blocked naked Dan staring deep into its flame, a dead man risen from the grave to torch his outfit, the fancy sash across his face. She blocked the sash, the eye, the man. She blocked the church door she’d never entered that Sunday morning, already an age ago. Blocked the church.

She blocked her sister and the pit.