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

at his hands. The knuckles were scarred from the rims. His palms were hard. A strip of tape covered a crack below his thumb. Dirt lined his nails, and when he flexed his fingers, he felt the day’s work in every joint.

These were not the hands he had before.

They were not worse.

Cinder exhaled, and a pale cloud of breath drifted into the cold. His ears continue reading …