Ginger knew something was wrong before she reached Sugar.

She had gone out into the field looking for her and spotted the little mare lying in the grass near the far fence. Sugar was small, only a little bigger than a pony, and from a distance she looked almost peaceful. Horses lay down sometimes, especially when the afternoon was warm, so at first Ginger wasn't worried.

Then Sugar tried to stand.

She lifted her head, struggled onto her front legs, and tried to push herself up. For a moment, she almost made it. Then she dropped heavily back to the ground.

Ginger started running. When she reached her, Sugar was breathing hard. Ginger knelt beside her and ran a hand along her neck. “Easy, Sugar. Easy.”

Sugar tried again, and this time Ginger saw the leg. It lay at an angle a horse's leg should never lie. Ginger's stomach turned cold.

“No,” she whispered.

Sugar struggled once more, frightened now because she couldn't understand why her body wouldn't do what she wanted it to do. Ginger put both hands against her neck. “Don't, Sugar. Please don't try.”

She didn't know much about broken bones, but she knew enough.

Ginger ran.

She raced across the field toward her grandparents' house, stumbling once and catching herself with both hands before scrambling up again. She burst through the door so hard it struck the wall.

“Grandpa! It's Sugar. Something's wrong. Her leg—she can't get up.”

Her grandfather was moving before Ginger finished speaking. Ginger followed him outside, nearly running to keep up with his longer steps. Neither of them said much as they crossed the field.

When they reached Sugar, her grandfather crouched beside her and examined the leg carefully. Ginger watched his face.

That frightened her more than anything.

Her grandfather stood. For a few seconds, he looked across the field without saying anything. Then he turned toward the house.

“Where are you going?”

He didn't answer.

Ginger stayed with Sugar, stroking her face and talking quietly to her until her grandfather returned.

He was carrying his rifle.

Ginger stared at it.

“No.”

“Ginger, go back to the house.”

“No. You can fix it.”

Her grandfather's face tightened. “I can't.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, honey. I can't.”

Ginger moved closer to Sugar. “Then we'll get somebody who can.”

Her grandfather shook his head, and Ginger understood.

She stepped between him and Sugar. “No. You can't.”

“Sugar is hurting.”

“I know.”

“She can't stand.”

“I know!”

Ginger's voice broke.

Her grandfather waited a moment before speaking again. “I'm not going to let her keep hurting.”

Ginger looked down at Sugar. Her sides rose and fell quickly, and dirt clung to her coat where she had struggled to stand. Ginger knelt beside her and wrapped her arms around her neck.

Sugar was warm. That seemed terribly important somehow. She was warm and breathing, and her mane still smelled exactly the way it always had.

Alive.

“Maybe she'll get better,” Ginger whispered.

Her grandfather didn't answer.

Ginger buried her face against Sugar's neck. After a moment, her grandfather placed his hand gently on her shoulder.

“You need to go back to the house now.”

“I want to stay with her.”

“No.”

“I won't be scared.”

“I know.”

“Then let me stay. She's my horse.”

“I know she is.”

“Then I should be here!”

Her grandfather's eyes looked different than Ginger had ever seen them. There was sadness in them, but there was something else too, something firm that told her arguing wasn't going to change anything.

“You say goodbye to Sugar,” he told her. “Then you go back to the house.”

Ginger hated him for saying it.

Just for that moment, she hated him.

She turned back to Sugar and stroked the little mare's face. She ran her fingers over the familiar places she knew so well, along her cheek, through her mane, and across the soft place above her nose.

Then Ginger leaned close to Sugar's ear.

She told her she was a good horse. She told her she was sorry. She told her she loved her.

Some of the things she whispered belonged only to Sugar.

Finally, Ginger stood. She took a few steps toward the house and stopped.

“Grandpa?”

He looked at her.

“Don't let her be scared.”

“I won't.”

Ginger walked away.

She didn't want to. Every part of her wanted to turn around and run back to Sugar, but she kept walking because her grandfather had insisted.

Halfway across the field, she began to cry. She could still hear Sugar struggling behind her. Ginger put her hands over her ears, but then she took them away. Somehow covering her ears felt like leaving Sugar even more alone.

She was almost to the house when she heard it.

One shot.

The sound cracked across the field and rolled away into the distance.

Ginger stopped.

She didn't turn around.

She didn't have to.

She knew what it meant.

For a long time, Ginger stood there looking at the house through her tears. She had thought saying goodbye would be the hardest part.

It wasn't.

The hardest part was knowing that Sugar had been alive when Ginger walked away and wasn't anymore.

Later, her grandfather came back alone.

Ginger was sitting on the porch steps when he came up and sat beside her. She didn't look at him, and for a while neither of them spoke.

Finally Ginger asked, “Was she scared?”

“No.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Ginger picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I didn't want you to do it.”

“I know.”

“I was mad at you.”

“I know that too.”

Ginger finally looked at him.

Her grandfather's eyes were wet.

She had never seen him cry before.

“You loved Sugar too?”

He nodded. “I did.”

“Then how could you do it?”

Her grandfather looked toward the field for a long moment before answering.

“Because sometimes loving an animal means we don't ask it to keep hurting just because we're not ready to lose it.”

Ginger didn't answer.

She wasn't ready for that lesson. She didn't want a lesson at all. She wanted Sugar standing at the fence, waiting for her. She wanted to call her name and see those familiar ears turn toward her. She wanted to walk into the field and have Sugar still be there.

Her grandfather seemed to understand, because he didn't say anything else. He simply sat beside her.

As the afternoon faded, Ginger leaned against his arm. She was still angry. She was still heartbroken. She still wished there had been another way.

And for a long time afterward, whenever Ginger remembered Sugar, she remembered the sound of that single shot across the field.

But she also remembered what came before it.

Her arms around Sugar's warm neck. The things she'd whispered into her ear. Her grandfather staying behind so Ginger wouldn't have to see what came next.

And the last thing Ginger had asked him.

Don't let her be scared.

He hadn't.