I wasn’t fully awake yet, and honestly, I still don’t know how it all happened.
One moment I was lying in bed, thinking it was just a normal Thursday morning. Then I heard this strange dragging noise outside—like metal scraping wood. I figured maybe the garbage bins had tipped over again. But when I stepped into the kitchen, I froze.
The bottom half of our back door was gone. Not open—completely smashed inward, with splintered wood everywhere and the latch barely hanging by a screw. And there, right in the middle of the patio, was Oscar—our horse.
Yes, our horse.
We live on a small piece of land, nothing fancy. Oscar’s usually calm and stays in his paddock out back. But this morning, he was chest-heaving, covered in dirt and sweat. Around his neck—believe it or not—was the broken bottom part of the door, like a twisted collar. It was clear he’d crashed through it.
I checked for injuries—thankfully, no blood. But his eyes were wide, like he’d been running from something. The strange thing? The latch to his paddock was still locked.
I hadn’t told Sam yet—he was still at work—and I was standing there barefoot, staring at Oscar, with a piece of our door hanging off him like a silent message.
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