At quarter to nine that night, Marcus killed the lights at the house and walked up to the barns, a green tack tote in one hand. He did a final check on the horses, cooing through the stall doors, smiling at two new foals, both only months old. A dog barked in the distance, not too close. The breeze made the pine trees sigh above him. The travel trailer was dark, its windows reflecting back the barn’s security lamp in a soft glow. As he opened the door, a quick flurry of wings startled him; he jerked away then realized it was an owl.
The floor creaked as he moved back and forth. It was an old model, one they took for local trips or down to the Tampa track. Marcus opened the windows and sniffed at the musty smell of a closed up room. It was warm inside.
He set the tote box onto the counter
