‘It’s every time. I can’t do anything’, ‘You see, I can set it to record on here’. The eldest woman turns her palm toward the other two, across the chest of the eldest daughter who sees only light reflecting on the screen of the phone. The youngest woman looks across but her glance is casual, whether she sees anything at all indiscernible. The eldest woman brings the phone back to her, chin sunk into chest, her body consuming her. ‘I don’t know’. She leans across the eldest daughter who is looking at her phone. ‘You don’t have- What is that? You’ve only got 4 percent battery… You need to put that on charge… Likely we’re gonna do that anytime soon’, ‘Been out all day. But it’s never anywhere I actually want to go is it? We get out don’t we?’ She inhales and exhales and tries to cackle but she is choked with disappointment. ‘I just want to get home now, you know?’, ‘Everywhere we go, isn’t it?’ The woman returned to her phone. ‘Its six o’clock now. I don’t know why I ever expect to get home in time. I don’t know what it is’. ‘No’, ‘No’, ‘No’. She sways and looks around for nothing specific to show that this is out of her control. ‘I mean, I’ll tell them next time’. She stands despondent, firm. ‘I’m just not having any of this’. She speaks forward, out into the road, the stretched words becoming less stretched, rhythmic, the two younger women looking down at their phones, at the ground around them, no space around them. They silently agree, some noises. ‘I’ll tell them we want the surgery- cut her open and find out what’s wrong. I’m sick of coming back here. Everywhere we go we end up in the hospital- I can’t go on holiday without us ending up here- We go away and we end up in the hospital’, ‘I’m sick of waiting around for them, not knowing what it is. I’ll tell them what it is- cut her open and find out’, ‘Yeah, yeah I know’ they mutter, stand.

They don’t make eye contact, the women look around and shift their weight and all three are fulfilled by this story. Not one of their choosing. Their heads silent, all feel the same pain, The Horse Girl is thankful for the support.

The Tall Man stared at The Horse Girl’s stomach. Her wrists large, the hands bent outwards supporting her weight, the walking aid not used for walking but standing, a series of shifts, a general support for the tiredness. A cast on the youngest woman’s arm but the woman happy. The girl in the road, saddled and with carriage, violently swinging her neck back and forth, seething at the whips and lashes. Above her, the force of the carriage driver, striking down with the whip. Blinkered, shuddering pains running down either side, to push forward is a type of option. The carriage driver with his screams, relentless, he finds difficulty breathing, the carriage moves.

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