Did you see that dead horse? I asked. I didn’t, she said. There was a dead horse on the side of the highway, I said. Are you sure? She asked. I am sure, I said. I know what a horse looks like. She kept driving for a moment. Are you sure it was dead? She asked. Maybe it was sleeping, or just wounded. I was positive that it was dead, though I began to doubt myself. I hadn’t ever really found myself close enough to horses—only passed them by in the numerous pastures in our town. I knew well enough what they looked like, certainly. It did seem that I could’ve made a mistake, recognizing my first dead horse from the highway, as we drove toward our simple destination. I fiddled with the radio. It always calmed me to do so, though it did the opposite for her. I’m sure it was dead, I said. On the opposite side of the highway, a police car, then another, zoomed past, sirens and lights blasting. It was all out of my hands now.

Dalton Day is a preschool teacher and the author of Exit, Pursued (Plays Inverse). His writing has been featured in The Threepenny Review, Matador Review, and Lunch Ticket, as well as by NPR's Invisibilia. He lives in Georgia, and can be found at tinyghosthands.com.