Trevor Strickler could see with his eyes perfectly well, excepting the long bangs that hung in his face, not unlike the unkempt forelock sported by Napoleon the Shetland pony. Trevor also was capable of a deeper, longer concentration than most adults whom I have taught.

Trevor was like me, only Trevor was not old, and his cancer did not take his eyesight first. His whole body was filled with cancer. A bit younger than my Claire, Trevor was, in his own words, “too old to be treated like a baby and forced to take riding lessons.” My job with Trevor was to find joy. That was my sole task, to help my friend feel joy.

I could feel my own cancer, behind my eyes, growing deep within me, waiting, I believe, for my work to be done. I know that Mother and Doctor Russ had kept my cancer at bay for as long as possible. Over the past few years, I had submitted to eye surgery as a matter of routine, to remove the cancer not only from my left, but also my right eye. Doctor Russ confirmed that I was slowly losing vision in my right eye, but with surgery, he was able to slow down its pace. Doctor Russ regularly pointed out to Mother that I was, after all, an old horse.

When I first met Trevor, he wanted nothing at all to do with me or any horse. Though enrolled in the therapeutic school and assigned me as his horse, as he did not participate in lessons, there was no need for sidewalkers. In fact, Trevor refused to acknowledge me in any way. He would not pick up a brush or a currycomb. Mrs. Maiden, Trevor, and Trevor’s mother would stand in my room for an hour, once a week, waiting for Trevor to show an interest. Trevor would stand with his back to us all, kicking the wood shavings against the wall of my room.

I ignored him because that is what he desired: to be left alone. Having turned my back on many, it’s a gesture that I understand fully. When an about-face like Trevor’s is deployed with such conviction, it is prudent to honor the request to be left alone. I did not judge the boy in his anger, nor did I take it as a personal affront. I didn’t feel the urge to defend myself against his outbursts, for they were directed at the wall, not me. Besides, Claire was plenty equipped to defend my dignity.

Though Claire had advanced in her jumping and dressage well beyond my abilities, she refused to give up her riding time with me. Claire’s attachment to me, and mine to her, allowed us each to feel secure in pursuing our separate paths confident in the knowledge that we were eternally bound. I loved our work together in the therapeutic school and our riding time in the mountains.

Claire and I had kept an easy routine of taking to the trails in the afternoons. We often strolled down to the Maury River in order to cool down from the hot afternoons. After wearing ourselves out in the water, Claire would sit on my back drying off while I grazed the lush banks of the river.

“See Saddle Mountain up there, Chancey?” Claire would ask. “One day, I’ll take you up there again. We’ll canter all the way to the top, then look out at everyone we know. They won’t see us or know where we are. It will be just the two of us, looking out at the whole world, together.”

I did not doubt Claire that one day we would find ourselves on the highest peak of Saddle Mountain. I looked forward to that day and hoped it would, indeed, come to pass. I had by then grown accustomed to Claire riding many different horses and this did not concern me or detract from my love for her, or hers for me. Claire and I had saved each other, and I knew, truly, that our love for each other grew even deeper as our training together came to an end.

I was happy that my therapeutic service did not supplant my time with Claire. Once a week, my trail time with Claire followed immediately after my lesson with Trevor, which could not be accurately described as a lesson, but more precisely standing-around-in-my-room time with Trevor. One afternoon, Claire arrived at the barn early, at the request of Mrs. Maiden. She had asked Claire to come out early to pick up registration forms for the Ridgemore Hunter Pace, a cross-country race of sorts that I very much hoped would be the event where Claire and I would finally win our first blue ribbon together, and my first blue ribbon ever.

Claire and I had not entered a competition together since Tamworth Springs. With Daisy, Claire had won every hunter show on the circuit. The pair brought home champion ribbons regularly, and Claire always came straight to my room afterward to tell me stories of the day. I did not miss the stress of hunter shows, and was glad that Daisy was the one to take my place. Daisy and I had come to appreciate each other; the mare excelled in hunter shows. Still, I longed to compete just once more with Claire and thought the hunter pace a perfect setting to do so.

Mrs. Maiden had convinced Claire that I would excel at a hunter pace. Though the course would include optional jumps, each jump would offer a go-around. Together, Claire and I would ride as a team over seven or eight miles of open pasture, up into the blue mountains, crossing over the Maury River several times. We would join with another horse and rider to form a team of four — two people, two horses — in a challenge to ride not the fastest, but the closest to the time the judges had determined to be optimum — a time that would not be announced until after the event had ended. The hunter pace was designed to test endurance, speed, agility, wit, and sportsmanship — all characteristics bred into me and highly developed among all Appaloosa horses.

Neither Claire nor I had dared utter aloud our hope that we might win the hunter pace, but we needn’t, for it was there in both our hearts. Though the event was still several months away, Mrs. Maiden preferred her students to register early for purposes of scheduling trailerloads and finding substitute trainers to teach in her absence.

Claire picked up the form and, as was her routine, brought her tack to my room in preparation for the trail. There we all stood, Trevor, with his back turned; his mother, absently brushing my neck in the same spot over and over; Mrs. Maiden; and Claire.

Mrs. Maiden introduced Claire to Trevor and his mother. “Trevor,” she said, gesturing to the boy as if he were really listening, “this is Chancey’s owner, Claire.”

Then she told Claire, “Trevor rides Chancey every Friday right before you do.”

Claire did not know, as did I, that it was perhaps not a lie, but at the very least an extreme exaggeration to state that Trevor had ever ridden me, for he had refused to even interact with me.

Mrs. Maiden seemed rushed. “Claire, I am kind of in a bind today with the farrier coming to shoe and the vet coming to give shots. Could you help Trevor tack up, please?”

Trevor’s mother opened her mouth to protest, but Claire answered too quickly, “Sure!”

Mrs. Strickler placed a protective arm around Trevor’s shoulder; he did not turn around. She smoothed the back of her son’s shirt. She pushed his long bangs out of his eyes.

Mrs. Maiden took Trevor’s mother by the elbow and escorted her out of my room, saying over her shoulder, “Thanks, Claire. I knew I could count on you.”

Claire moved toward Trevor as if it were perfectly expected that he would be tucked into the corner of my room.

“Come on. I’ll help you.” Claire did not know that Trevor had made a practice of angrily kicking my wall for several weeks in a row. I could have told her that he had no intention of tacking me up.

Trevor lashed out at Claire. “I don’t need your help! And I don’t want to ride your stupid horse.”

If Mrs. Maiden heard the outburst, and I believe she did, she did not turn back, but busied herself in the tack room preparing for John the Farrier and Doctor Russ.

Claire did not require adult intervention. She responded to Trevor with equal venom in her voice. “Why do you even come out here? Why don’t you just go back to wherever you came from? Go play baseball or something. Geez.”

Claire turned her back to Trevor and began grooming me — a little more forcefully than usual, I might add.

Directed at any other student, I would have appreciated Claire’s zealous defense on my behalf. But Trevor was different; slowly, we were working toward an understanding of each other. Undoubtedly, Mrs. Maiden and the boy’s mother could detect no change in his demeanor, as he did stand in the corner every week for one solid hour. I could tell he was softening to me; he was opening just enough. He kicked out less and less each time. He had begun to sneak glances at me. He was behaving much like a horse. He needed to be left alone for long enough that his curiosity would overcome his anger or fear. We were making progress; I worried that Claire’s harsh words might close Trevor to me for good, before I had come to know him at all.

The boy, at least, was interested enough to fight with Claire. He had held so much inside for so long, I suppose, that I should not have been surprised that Claire had opened up a rather clogged pipeline of emotions.

Trevor said nothing after Claire’s outburst. He kicked the wall hard. Then he kicked it again. Down the line, the other horses danced around and gave halfhearted whinnies of displeasure. Across the way, Dante began kicking his own wall.

Claire brushed me roughly then turned to face Trevor. “And Chancey’s not stupid! You’re stupid!” She turned her back on Trevor.

All of the other horses turned to watch my room. Mrs. Maiden did not emerge from the tack room, nor did Mrs. Strickler. Stu, who had been mucking stalls, parked the wheelbarrow outside of Gwen’s room, next to mine. He listened and watched but did not intervene.

Trevor did not hold back. He screamed at Claire, “My mom makes me come to this stupid place! I hate it here, and I hate your horse!”

Claire spun around to face him, but Trevor didn’t let up. Trevor’s lips sprayed saliva on my muzzle as he spoke. “It’s an old, stupid, smelly horse. I wish it were dead!”

For the first time, Trevor stood right next to me. I could not see him, but felt and smelled that he was at my left cheek. He smelled precisely of an oatmeal cookie. In fact, I was certain a cookie, or part of a cookie, remained in his shirt pocket. Claire moved closer to my face and closer to Trevor. I had no trouble hearing either of them.

“Shut up! Shut up and leave Chancey alone, or you’re going to wish you were dead!”

I nickered at Claire, trying to calm her down. I feared she had gone too far, but it was too late. The boy had egged her on purposefully, it seemed. In fact, I sensed that he needed someone, like Claire, to give him room and reason to say what came next, for he said it without anger, without any emotion, really.

“I am going to be dead. I have cancer and I am going to be dead. Don’t say you’re sorry, either. Don’t say anything.”

Claire did not speak, at first. She picked up a currycomb and began circling it on the dirtiest part of my body, starting at my neck. Trevor remained in the room with us, and he did not turn back to the wall. He stood facing Claire, waiting for something. Finally, Claire spoke to him.

“Don’t just stand there; pick up a brush. If you’re going to come every week, you might as well have fun.”

Trevor didn’t budge.

Claire kept talking to him anyway. “When I first met Chancey, my parents were getting a divorce. I hardly remember anything about that time it hurt so bad every day. Everybody at school and at home started treating me differently, like they felt sorry for me or something. Even though I felt like a different person, I wanted to be the same person, and I wanted everybody to treat me like the same person. Does that make sense?”

Claire did not wait for Trevor to respond; Trevor remained silent. Claire had rarely spoken of her parents’ divorce, though I knew her heart ached because of it. Claire continued talking to the stone wall of Trevor.

“What I do remember is that Chancey was always there for me. If I needed to talk, or be goofy and ride him backward, or just stand in his stall and smell him, it didn’t matter. I was always his Claire, the same Claire every day.”

She turned to look at Trevor, still silent. Claire kept talking to the air. “I know a divorce is not the same as cancer. For me, though, it’s the hardest thing ever in my life. I miss my dad a lot when I’m with Mother. When I’m with Dad, I want to be with her. I know it’s not the same, but it still hurts.”

Trevor’s posture softened. He put a hand on my cheek. Claire rested her head against me, perhaps remembering the day we met.

“Mrs. Maiden told me one time, ‘Claire, you need to let your pain out and let love come back.’ All I’m saying, Trevor, is the same thing. Chancey is good at letting love in. He will love you as deep as an atom is small, if you let him.”

Claire put her arms around me and held me close. Then she turned and looked at Trevor. “Besides, Chancey has cancer, too. Y’all have something in common.” Then Claire ignored him.

She had learned, from fraternizing with horses for so much of her childhood, that if you ignore us, our curiosity will almost always demand that you not. Neither Claire nor I were surprised when Trevor picked up the body brush and began brushing my neck alongside Claire.

“Slow down,” corrected Claire. “Here, brush him like this, softer, in long strokes. See how he closes his eyes? That means he likes it.” I closed my eyes again to demonstrate for Trevor.

Finally, Trevor spoke. “Does it really have cancer?”

Claire put the currycomb in the brush box and turned to Trevor.

“His name is Chancey. Here, I’ll show you.”

Claire moved around to my right side and pulled the lid of my eye down toward her hand. I stood still so that Trevor could see my cancer.

“See that kind of white-pink blob right there? That’s cancer. He has it in his left eye, too, but you can’t see it because we had the tumor taken off that eye last month. But the cancer’s still growing. He’ll need another operation at some point. He’s probably had six operations since I got him three years ago.”

Claire released my eyelid and kissed me on the nose.

“Can it see?” Trevor asked about me.

Claire patiently repeated, “His name is Chancey.” She waited for Trevor to repeat the question satisfactorily.

“Yeah, whatever. Can it see?”

“No, not ‘yeah, whatever.’ Chancey is his name; don’t call him ‘it.’ To answer your question, he can’t see on his left side, but he seems to see all right on his right. We did have to take a tumor off of his right eye last year, and this one will probably come off soon.”

I had not let on to Claire that my right eye’s vision had begun its deterioration. Mac and Gwen knew, and they covered for me quite well by always staying nearby and giving me guidance whenever I got into trouble in the field, mostly at night.

“Can you teach me to ride him?” Trevor asked. “Can you teach me to ride Chancey?” He repeated the question again with my name, to show Claire his sincerity.

“Sure! I’m an awesome rider and Chancey’s an awesome horse. I’ll teach you to ride, no problem. You’ll be winning ribbons before you know it,” Claire boasted.

The smells of sugar, oatmeal, and raisins right under my nose had caused me too much agony already. I nudged Trevor’s shirt pocket very gently, certain that the remnants of an oatmeal cookie with raisins waited inside and hopeful that it waited for me.

Claire cocked her head. “What, Chancey?” she asked me, tickling my chin. Then Claire laughed. “Trevor, did you bring Chancey a treat?”

Trevor reached inside his pocket and pulled out half a cookie. “Oh, yeah. I don’t like oatmeal cookies. So, I, uh, well . . .”

“You did! You brought Chancey a treat! You were going to make friends with Chancey on your own, weren’t you?”

Trevor pushed his bangs around and stood looking at me. He made no move for the pocket that contained the cookie. I nibbled at his shirt. He laughed and reached inside.

“No, not like that,” Claire ordered him. “Hold your hand out flat.”

“You’re so bossy,” Trevor told her. “Are you always this bossy?”

He did as Claire told him, held his hand flat, and fed me the oatmeal cookie. I rested my head on his shoulder. He exhaled and began to breathe evenly.

The boy grew quiet. “Claire, I might not be able to get good enough to win a ribbon. That takes time.”

Claire understood, as I did. Trevor meant he didn’t have the time it would take to become an accomplished rider. Claire, being Claire, had no problem making big promises.

“Trevor, it won’t take long at all. We’ll have to pick the right event and you’ll have to practice, but sure, no problem.”

“Really? Like you think we could be champions?”

“Definitely, you two could be champions. But you have to promise two things. One, that you won’t call Chancey stupid ever again, and two, that you’ll try to have fun.” Claire stuck her hand out to Trevor. Trevor accepted the deal and we set to work that afternoon.