3.16b

When he was five, he had been bitten by his neighbor's horse. On-the-fly, full-mouth, shirt-tearing bit by a horse. It scarred him. Cows? Fine. Alpacas? They smell, but whatever.

Horses?

No.

He finally decided to face his fears. He hopped the fence into his neighbor's yard and walked slowly to where he knew the horses would be. He stood near the edge of the enclosure so he could run if he had to. He raised his hands in an open gesture and waited. The three horses perked up as they noticed him. The younger horses approached and snuffled his fingers, looking for apples or candy or whatever he believed horses ate. They soon lost interest in food-less hands and started eating near him.

The third horse was the oldest. It was the horse that bit him. They stared at each other for too long. Why was he afraid of this horse anymore? It was old. He was tall. The horse was probably worried that he would come and take its food. So he just nodded at the horse. He turned around and walked away.