The horse is warm at her back, alive and shifting. She can feel the prickle of its coat, the coarse hair of Bubbles's mane tickling the back of her neck just over the collar of her sweatshirt, the front of which is plastered with a school logo she doesn't recognize and won't ever know. Ellie threads her fingers together in front of her and picks at her knuckles. It's mostly quiet but even now she can make out the hum of water churning nearby if she listens.
"Thanks," she says. In this instance, she's pretty sure she means it.
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"Thanks," she says. In this instance, she's pretty sure she means it.