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

it, jaw clenched. The small front wheels caught in every groove. Twice he had to lean back and pop them free, using his shoulders to lift the chair just enough to keep moving. By the time he reached pen seven, sweat had gathered between his shoulder blades despite the morning chill.

Cinder was moving along the back fence.

The mustang looked worse in continue reading …