Colt by Nancy Springer Page A

hurt.”
    In fact he felt weak and achy all over. His mother looked hard at him, then turned to Mrs. Reynolds. “I believe I’d better take him home.”
    â€œWhatever you think is best,” said Mrs. Reynolds quietly. “I’m very sorry this happened.”
    Colt did not look at Liverwurst as Mrs. Reynolds and his mother got him off the saddle and into the car.
    Audrey Flowers did not say much in the car on the way home. She had her serious, wait-and-see look on, and she drove carefully, as if afraid of hurting something. At supper she told Brad about the trotting incident in quiet tones that fooled no one: Audrey was upset. Colt ate his supper without saying much—he didn’t know what to say. He went to bed early, lay in the dark, and begged whatever authority was in charge of spina bifida to please not let his back act up.
    It was no use. The throbbing of his lump woke him early in the morning.
    His mother came into his bedroom as soon as she heard him thump down headfirst from his bed. “How’s the back?”
    â€œFine, Mom.” He scooter-boarded past her toward the bathroom, not looking at her. She followed him.
    â€œDoes it hurt at all ?” she yelled at him through the door.
    Colt managed to convince her he was all right until time for Sunday breakfast, when she noticed how stiffly he was sitting in his wooden kitchen chair, how he was not letting its rungs touch his back. She laid down her fork and gave him a hard look. “I’m taking you straight to Dr. DeMieux,” she said.
    Colt sighed. The spina bifida specialist at the medical center was not going to be happy to see him between regular visits. On a Sunday, yet.
    Not that Dr. DeMieux said much. She pursed her lips and inspected the critical area of his back. Lying on his belly on her examining table, Colt swiveled his head around to see if she looked somber. She did. “Inflamed,” she said. She prescribed medication. “What have you been doing, Colt?”
    â€œExercises,” he said.
    â€œHorseback riding,” his mother said.
    â€œIt was just the trotting,” Colt protested.
    â€œDon’t you remember I specified no trotting when I signed permission for your horseback riding?” Dr. DeMieux looked perturbed.
    Colt faltered, “But that was just for, like, the summer program. I’ve been taking private lessons. I’m a lot-better rider now.”
    â€œIt does not matter. If your horse is going to trot, I am afraid I have to say, Colt, that you must not ride horseback anymore.”
    Obviously she did not understand. All he had to do was make her understand and it would be all right. “But I’ve got to ride,” he told her, calmly explaining. “I love riding, especially trail riding. I won’t let Liverwurst trot with me anymore until I’ve really learned to post. I—”
    â€œYoung man, it’s your life we’re talking about here,” Dr. DeMieux interrupted.
    â€œYes,” Colt said, a stubborn edge nudging into his voice. “It is.”
    â€œColt!” his mother warned. “He’s getting a mind of his own,” she said, apologizing to the doctor.
    â€œThat’s all right. But in that case he must learn to reason things out.” Dr. DeMieux sat down on her rolling stool so that she faced Colt at eye level. “Colt. You have heard certain things before, but think what they really mean. When I say it is your life, I mean that little mass protruding from your spine: It is your life. If you make it sore, if you cause more nerve damage, then a little bit of you dies. If you rub it open and it becomes infected, there is nothing to keep the infection from entering your spinal cord and going straight to your brain. You could die.”
    Colt swallowed hard but said, “Anytime I walk I could fall down and hurt myself, break my neck and die.”
    â€œThis is true. But on horseback you are twice as