Olive struggled to her feet as Stevie tugged on her halter and Morgan shoved at the horse’s hips. Emilia and Abby urged Olive on with encouraging chirps and words of praise, and at last Olive staggered to her feet. She stood with her legs splayed and her eyes glazed.

Morgan motioned for Emilia to step forward. With her borrowed stethoscope, she joined Morgan in listening for intestinal sounds. Absolute silence met her ears.

That’s not good.

“Okay,” said Morgan as she checked Olive’s heart rate and mucous membranes.

“Rectal exam?” Emilia offered.

Morgan worked through the exam methodically, her face taut with concentration, and Emilia marveled at the steadiness of her own hands against the horse’s flank. Sheep baaed in the distance. Hay and manure mingled in her nostrils, along with the warm smell of horse. If Olive was badly obstructed, there were steps that could be taken. She ran through them, trying to recall her large animal rotations. Olive stood patiently while Morgan probed, and Emilia appreciated the steadiness of the animal’s temperament. This isn’t a shelter, she repeated to herself. We can help her. I can help her.

“Let’s get her some butorphanol and place a nasogastric tube,” Morgan said when she withdrew. Emilia noted the grim set to her face and looked over at Olive again. The horse was clearly in severe pain; this was not a case of mild colic.

“Do you think it’s an impaction?” Emilia asked.

“If it is, it’s further up than I can feel. We’ll see how she responds to fluids and the lubricant. The butorphanol should kick in soon, too.”

Despite the confidence in Morgan’s words, the pain medication had little impact on Olive. Her respiratory rate remained high, and after several hours with no increased signs of motility, Morgan turned to Abby.

“Dr. Donovan?” Abby asked with fading hope.

“I’m worried she’s got a strangulating obstruction.”

“What does that mean?” asked Abby.

Emilia knew the answer. It meant without surgical correction, the blood supply to the rest of the intestine could be cut off, killing the tissue—and the horse.

“It means we need to talk about next steps. I’m not comfortable waiting this out.” Morgan explained the risks to a white-lipped Abby Killmore. Emilia thought she saw the shine of tears in the older woman’s eyes.

“Abby,” said Morgan, “is the horse in your name?”

“No. My cousin has the papers.”

“We have three options here.” Morgan spoke calmly, but with authority. “My recommendation is that we get her to a specialist for surgery. The nearest one is Portland. Your second choice is to wait and hope it works itself out with lubricant, but I don’t recommend it.”

“What’s the third choice?”

“A quality-of-life discussion.”