American Paint

On the morning of the day that he died, Jenny's grandfather took her across the road to feed the neighbor's horses. On the way, they gathered windfalls from below the apple trees. He showed Jenny, as he did each time, to keep her hand flat, to let the horse take the apple from her palm. She knew, of course, but listened.

When the apples were gone, they headed home. Crossing the road, he stopped and looked down at Jenny with the same expression he had letting her sneak sips of his Piels when Mother turned her back.

   — Next time, I'm going to steal one. I'm   

going to take one and ride away.  

Probably the Paint.

   — Grandpa, we don't steal.

   — Perhaps we do? Perhaps we should start?

As they crossed the yard, he reached up, picked an apple and held it out in his palm. She smiled and took it with her teeth.

           

That night there was no story. The room was too warm for sleep. Jenny went to the window hoping to see one less horse asleep in the field, but it was a moonless night. A line storm was approaching from the west and gathering clouds hid the stars. She couldn't see apple trees or fence or field. It had all become part of the darkness. She opened the window as far as she could reach. Pre-storm gusts came across the field filling her room with the scent of apples, lilac, the horses. She closed her eyes, feeling again the warm breath in her palm. When she opened her eyes, expecting the black window framing a black world, she witnessed instead fireflies, startled to flight by the wind — thousands of tiny victories illuminating the void. That night, she slept beneath the open window. She awoke in the morning, fearless.