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

Dust puffed around his feet. The dark line of his neck stretched long, and his nostrils worked over the chair, the rubber tires, the clean leather boots Jonah had not dirtied in two years.

Cinder lowered his head until his muzzle hovered above Jonah’s toes.

Warm breath spilled over the boots, stirring the dust on them.