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I spent about ten minutes with the big gelding, feeling the way I always do around a horse I like. Like I’m a kid. Untouched by the world and all my self-made problems. Nothing to cloud me, just the warm inquisitive presence of the horse. A lot of jocks don’t spend much time hanging out with horses. To them, horses are vehicles for income and stimulation. Sure, they feel them on some level—they wouldn’t be good riders if they didn’t—but they’re not prone to hanging around the barn much. To me, that’s the gold. Horses are intensely social creatures. They’re often frustrated at humans’ failure to understand them, but if you just put in that extra something, scratch that special spot behind their withers, pay attention to what they’re telling you, they let you into their world.

After socializing with Muley for a while, I headed home to change into jogging clothes. I walked the two miles to where I rent a basement from an insane Irish family. I hadn’t been there in a while and Mrs. O’Rourke, the matron of the family, was hanging out on the glassed-in porch like she’d been waiting for me all week.

“Where you been, Johnson?” she demanded—not that I was tardy with rent or had perpetrated any tenant crimes. The woman was just nosy. She wanted to know about my life, hoping its hardships would make her own shine in contrast.

“I met a lady,” I said, jutting my chin out a little, trying to indicate that this was no mere girl, but a lady, a class act, a woman worth bragging about.

Mrs. O’Rourke’s eyes seemed to bulge more than usual. “You’re not legally separated from that nice wife of yours.” She curled her lip in disdain.

“She’s not so nice. And no, I’m not legally separated, but that’s just a matter of a very short time. Have a nice day.” I turned and marched down the three steps to the basement.

I flicked on the overhead fluorescent, illuminating my little dungeon. The floor was strewn with muddy clothes and boots. In the corner was a twin bed with flower-patterned sheets, next to this a small pressed-wood dresser. Above it hung a Powerpuff Girls mirror, bequeathed to me by my daughter. There was one window and a tiny toilet and shower stall behind a curtain in the back. When I’d rented the place, I’d been so anxious to get away from Ava it had looked like heaven. Now, after the dilapidated glory of Ruby’s place, it didn’t seem like much. But I wasn’t planning to spend a lot of time here.

I went right to the scale to see how much weight I had to get rid of for tomorrow’s races. I actually kept my eyes closed then finally braved looking down. One-thirteen. I had to lose seven pounds by tomorrow.

I bundled myself in half a dozen layers of sweat suits and long johns and was sweating profusely before I’d even stepped outside to start on a quick eight miles.

As I broke into a jog, my body protested. After all the inactivity of last week, I’d made the body ride three horses and now this. Under normal circumstances it’d be nothing, but there was nothing normal about anything anymore.

I ran. Through the entrails of Queens. Past row houses and warehouses, marshland and shacks. I considered hauling myself all the way over to the Queens/Brooklyn borderline to check out the Hole, a place Ruby had told me about. She and a racehorse she’d been trying to protect had once been held captive there, in the Hole, a little cul de sac near some projects where members of the Federation of Black Cowboys had erected stables. Ruby’s telling me about it was the first I’d heard of the Cowboys or this Hole of theirs and I was curious. Apparently, a fair number of retired racehorses are saved from grim fates and end up at the Hole where members of the Federation work with them patiently, calming them down and teaching them until they become mellow round-bellied horses even a child could ride.

Considering that my knees were about to buckle, my many layers of clothing were soaked, and I had already run four miles, I decided to visit the Hole another day. I headed home.

Mrs. O’Rourke was thankfully not at her post on