Chapter 2 - The Language of the WoundedSilence fell over the isolation unit, thick and suffocating, broken only by the low hum of the ventilation shafts and the wet, labored breathing behind her.
Rachel froze. She knew equine behavior better than any sophomore in the veterinary program; survival depended on her ability to suppress her own adrenaline. Prey animals read cortisol like an open book.
Slowly, without sudden jerks, she turned.
Goliath stood towering in the corner. He was a magnificent sixteen-hand thoroughbred, his dark bay coat glistening under the dim ceiling lamp, but his posture was that of a beast trapped in perpetual agony. His ears were pinned flat against his skull, the whites of his eyes rolling in frantic suspicion.
"Easy, boy," Rachel murmured, keeping her pitch low, resonant, and steady. "Easy..."
The horse stamped a heavy hoof against the rubberized mat, the impact vibrating through Rachel’s knees. He extended his neck, baring large yellow teeth, his upper lip curled into an aggressive flehmen grimace.
Rachel didn’t flinch, though every instinct screamed at her to press herself flat against the bars. Instead, she lowered her chin, averting direct eye contact. She observed his neck.
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Thick, intricate braids pulled the stallion's black mane tightly to the right side, fastened with a clinical plastic clip. But around the base of the braid, near the fourth cervical vertebra, she noticed an unnatural swelling—a localized edema seeping clear serous fluid into the dark hair.
He’s not vicious, Rachel realized with a sudden jolt of empathy. He’s in excruciating pain.
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