In the end, I’m not even two hours late, but I still can’t shake the guilt. It doesn’t help that Sceptre is banging on the gate, glaring at me when I pull in, or that the ponies are whinnying like they’re starving.
My youngest pony, Drama (because everyone needs ‘a little drama’ in their lives), pins her ears at me as I pass, the equine equivalent of being chewed out. “You’re not dying,” I tell them. Even so, I feel guilty.
Then again, everything makes me feel guilty these days so...
“Freak out later,” I tell myself, pouring measured scoops of grain into feed buckets. “Work for now.”
I’m almost done with everyone’s breakfast when I hear the upstairs apartment door swing shut. We used to have a live-in groom, but now my dad uses it as an office, and when I hear labored steps on the wood
