Before we go back in, we stop to give Rainbow some love. I give Ivy a leg up and let her ride bareback while I lead Rainbow around the yard. It’s funny how you get to know where you live so well. I know where every big rock is, every dip in the land, and every tree that’s worth trying to climb. When we were little, Micah and I would make entire villages in the cracks of the stone wall for the old Fisher-Price Little People figures that had been my mom’s when she was a kid. We’d divide up sections of the wall so we could make our own “apartments” for our people families, and then have them come and visit each other when we were all done. We made tables and chairs from smaller rocks, and beds out of sticks and grass. Ivy was just a baby then, and she’d crawl over to us and try to play. Sometimes she’d ruin all of our hard work, but it was never a big deal because most of the fun came from building. We’d pretend “Hurricane Ivy” had hit and now our people had to rebuild, bigger, better, and stronger.

Rainbow nudges my thighs with his nose and gets slobber on me.

“No carrots in the garden yet, buddy,” I say. I bend down and pick some grass for him, and he gently gums it up into his mouth.

“Rachel! Where’s that basil?” my dad calls through the kitchen window.

“Coming!”

Ivy helps me put Rainbow in his stall and fill his water and give him some hay. We hug him good night and start back toward the house.

“Rainbow needs his own mini fridge,” Ivy says.

“Nah, that’s for fancy horses.”

“I bet he was fancy once.”

“Rainbow?” I say doubtfully.

“Why not?”

“Well, he’s just a pony, for one thing. Ponies aren’t exactly fancy. More . . . folky.”

“Folky?”

“Cute.”

“Let’s give him a bath tomorrow and brush him really well. And braid his mane.”

“You don’t want to go to the beach again?”

She rubs her tummy. “I think I need a day off.”

“Good point.”

Inside, my mom and dad are cooking together in the kitchen. My mom chops garlic while my dad does the onions. Only, tears are streaming down my mom’s face instead of my dad’s.

“Mom! What’s wrong?” Ivy runs over and hugs her around the waist.

“It’s just the onions,” my mom says. “I can’t be anywhere near them when they’re getting chopped.”

I catch my dad’s eye, and I know my mom is lying just from the apologetic way he looks at me. I hand him the bowl of basil and keep my thoughts to myself.