Dante looked at the horse, then at me.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver flashlight, clicking it on.

He aimed the narrow beam directly at the puncture, keeping his other hand steady on his gun.

“Do it,” he said. “Fast.”

My fingers were slick with sweat and iodine.

I reached for the small forceps on the metal tray.

The red emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows across the concrete floor, making the stable look like a subterranean cavern.

I leaned in close, the smell of copper, wet leather, and stale sweat filling my nose.

“Hold his halter, Dante,” I whispered. “He’s going to flinch.”

Dante stepped to Vesper’s head, wrapping a thick, scarred arm around the horse’s neck.

He spoke in a low, rhythmic murmur, a language I didn’t recognize, his voice a deep rumble against the horse’s ear.

I slid the tips of the forceps into the narrow opening of the wound.

The metal scraped against something hard and deep inside the tissue.

Vesper shivered, his hind leg lifting slightly off the rubber mat, his muscles bunching under his skin.