A droplet of thin mucous hovers at the tip my nose. I swab it with the cuff of my sleeve—thirty seconds of respite from annoying dampness. Another droplet forms. I flex stiff fingers inside bulky leather gloves, willing the blood to circulate. Flexing does little to waken sluggish veins. I bang my free hand against my thigh till a small tingle teases the knuckles. I move the reins over to that hand and repeat the process with the newly freed hand. It’s hopeless. I jam the free hand under my opposite armpit and clamp my wings shut to stymie the wind.

The horse plods, his feet dragging, providing a measure of support to offset the high-heeled teeter of snow-packed hooves. Our pace is slow, unusual for this fireball of horsehair and arrogance. Looking over his shaggy shoulder, I see frosted whiskers and eyelids. With an occasional horse sneeze, he clears the sticky hairs inside his nostrils.

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