My sleeves were pushed up to my elbows.

Under the harsh halogen bulb of the wash rack, the silver, jagged lines across my inner wrists were fully visible.

They were old, ugly scars, left by shattered stirrup irons and the dragging weight of a panicked thoroughbred years ago.

Dante’s eyes drifted down from his phone.

He stared at my wrists for a long, silent moment.

“You didn’t get those working in a diner,” he said, his voice low.

I didn’t look up, focusing instead on wrapping the leg with clean, self-adhering bandage.

“People have pasts, Mr. Moretti,” I said.

“Those are track scars,” he said. “A bad spill. A long recovery.”

“I’m wrapping the leg now,” I said, ignoring his observation. “He needs to be stall-rested, kept away from mud, and the wound must be flushed twice a day.”

Dante shoved his phone back into his coat pocket.

“My main distribution hub is gone,” he said, his tone quiet, which made it far more terrifying than if he had screamed.

“I have to go there immediately.”

He looked at Vesper, who was resting his heavy muzzle against Dante’s chest.