I wasn’t even fully awake when I heard a strange scraping outside—metal on wood, maybe a trash bin tipping. But when I stepped into the kitchen, I froze.
The bottom half of our back door was gone. Not open—destroyed. Splinters everywhere, latch barely clinging to the frame.
And in the middle of our patio stood Oscar.
Our horse.
He was panting, soaked in sweat, with a jagged chunk of the door hanging from his neck like a bizarre necklace. Oscar’s usually calm, steady. The paddock latch was still locked. So how did he get out? Why crash through the house?
I checked him for injuries—nothing. But his eyes were wild. Like something had terrified him.
Then, I noticed movement at the tree line—quick and low. Someone ducking out of sight. No one should be back there. Not this far out.
I grabbed a flashlight and stepped outside. Oscar didn’t flinch. He just stood there, like he’d done his job.
That’s when it clicked: he wasn’t running from something. He was coming to me.
I whispered, “What were you trying to tell me, buddy?”
I didn’t go far—just to the yard’s edge. That’s when the light caught something near a fallen log.
A backpack.
And beside it… a little girl. Dirt-smudged, silent, just staring back at me.
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