The crowd thought the boy in the wheelchair was helpless-until the wild mustang lowered his head to his boots

when the dirt dipped. The work burned through his arms and into his chest.

He kept going.

Fifty yards into the pasture, he stopped and locked his brakes.

Cinder was grazing near the far fence without a halter, black against the fading light. His winter coat had started to come in, thickening along his neck and jaw. When the chair stopped, the mustang continue reading …