Zan bounced the basketball between his legs. He dribbled with his left hand, then his right. An April breeze, warm from the sun but cool underneath, sent a shiver down his bare back.

It was skins against shirts. Seventh grade against eighth grade. This was his kind of game: pick-up, after school, an outdoor court, kids watching from the bus stop.

His new gym shoes squeaked in the wet spots from the snowpile melting behind the basket. He saw the court well.

His buddy, Kyle, fought off the guy guarding him and rolled toward the basket. Zan bounced a feed to him and broke for the rim. Kyle, back to the basket, faked left for a baseline drive. Then he flicked a no-look dish.

Zan tucked the ball against his hip and floated toward the basket. He reached toward the rim, but couldn't see the sky. An eighth grader hung over him like a tree with outstretched branches. One of the limbs crashed down on the ball, on him.

"Foul!" Kyle called.

Zan lay on the cold court. His knee was scraped and burning. His elbow throbbed.

The eighth grader leaned over Zan. His face was as dark as the shadow he cast with his blown-out Afro.

"Don't bring that stuff in here. This is my court," he said. Daring Kyle to argue, the older boy added, "That was a clean block."

Who is this guy? Zan wondered as he pulled himself back up. Well, whoever he is, he isn't going to scare me out of my game. I'm a point guard. I go inside. He's not going to make me settle for safe jump shots.

The next time the skins got the ball, Zan spotted an opening and slashed down the lane toward the rim. A heavy arm chopped across his wrists. They knocked him off balance and into the snowbank.

"I told you to stay out of here, punk," the eighth grader's voice rumbled, deep as a grown man's. He hung over Zan, forcing him to stay down in the icy pile. "You think just because you got some new gym shoes and a couple of moves you can mess with me?"

Zan's lower lip slid forward. The corners of his mouth turned down.

"Yo, Lazelle," a shirt called out. "I could use some new gym shoes. Those look like my size."

"You mean these?" Lazelle asked. He lifted both of Zan's feet in one hand, forcing his bare back deep into the melting snow. "Tell you what, punk. I'll just yank these off. Then let's see you drive down the lane. And besides, it'll be fun to watch you ride the bus barefooted."

How am I going to get away from this guy? Zan thought.

TOOT! TOOT! A truck horn sounded.

Skins and shirts turned to look.

Corky.

Zan jumped up. "Gotta go," he said. "That's my ride."

He grabbed his shirt and sprinted across the school parking lot.

I hope no one notices the Shamrock Stables sign on the pickup door, he thought. And I hope the truck doesn't smell like horse pookey. And I hope nobody notices Corky.

"Yo, punk," Lazelle shouted. "Nice ride. Is that where you stay? At a stable? With a red-headed grandma?"

As Zan slid into the truck, Corky said, "Well, that looked like a fun game."

Zan studied the Irish stable owner.

She doesn't have a clue, he thought. And now she's taking me to a police station. Police. Forget them. But at least they have horses there. Mounted police. They can't be all bad if they use horses instead of squad cars and no Lazelles around.

"Yeah, Corky," he sighed, "a fun game of hoops behind the school."

The police barn didn't look like his idea of a barn. There were no red boards, hipped roofs, or wide-opening doors. It was yellow brick, faded and stained as a calico alley cat. Two stories, blue trim on top. It looked like any other downtown building for lawyers or insurance agents. But inside, it was different. Very different.

First, there was the smell: the warm-sweet odor of large animals, hay, leather, and wood chips. Under that was the scent of an old, cool place. A grandpa's basement, dusty but slightly damp and moldy, like someone had left a wet towel bunched up in a corner.

While Corky asked for Officer Mike, Zan propped his chin on the scarred front counter. He watched the officer talking into her headset. Over her shoulder, a long, narrow picture showed horses side by side in front of the stables.

Zan counted. Sixty horses. Sixty riders. 1939 stood out in white ink on the brown-toned photograph.

The officer told them that Officer Mike would be out for a while longer. Corky and Zan wandered through the stable. Zan counted only twelve horses, veterans nearing the end of their working days.

Walking behind the cement stalls painted policeman blue, he read some of the names: Buster, Jack, Pard. They were all big horses, at least sixteen hands high. Mostly geldings. Old geldings with old-people ailments like arthritis and kidney problems and belly aches. Each one needed special medicine and care.

Bored, Zan leaned in the doorway that led to a small exercise yard outside. One block down, he spotted Officer Mike riding a tall, bay gelding along the city street. A brown horse followed on a lead. Could it be Boomer?

"Ayuda! Help! Ayudame!" a young girl screamed from a second floor porch. Ropey black braids whipped across her face. She quickly scanned the street below. "She's choking. The baby's choking. Help! Somebody, ayudame!"

The girl spotted the mounted policeman on the street below. She pointed at a playpen on the porch. "Help!" she cried. "The baby! Hurry!"

Officer Mike swung off his mount and dropped the reins. With his radio to his mouth, he ran for the porch. He bounded up the steps two at a time. He looked toward Zan and jerked his thumb toward the horses just before disappearing into the upstairs doorway.

Zan yelled, "Corky!" into the police stable. Then he ran down the street like a base runner trying to score from second.

The older horse, the officer's horse, lowered his head and calmly nibbled weeds sprouting along the curb. The other horse, with its head high and eyes wide, ran away from Zan.

Tagging the curb, Zan felt like he was rounding third and heading for home, with people shouting and waving along the baseline. Two women ran from a neighboring house, shouting in Spanish.

A car stopped in the street. The driver poked his head out of the window. Up on the porch, Officer Mike held a baby face-up over his knee. He pushed with two fingers against its chest. The young horse slowly trotted away from the uproar.

"Boomer," Zan shouted at the Clydesdale-Quarter Horse mix. "Stop!"

The gelding trotted faster. Zan sprinted. The gelding broke into a slow canter.

This isn't working, Zan thought. He was going to chase the horse into the heavy downtown traffic flowing past the next corner.

Think, he told himself. Horses are prey animals. Their instinct is to run from predators that come straight at them. Go slow and easy and come from the side. That's what I have to do.

As soon as Zan stopped running, Boomer slowed to a walk. Zan crossed the street. He stopped.  He studied the frightened young horse.

Zan stared across the street at nothing in particular. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the giant horse stop and bite some leaves from a low-hanging branch.

"Hey, big guy," Zan said, slowly and carefully. "Remember me?"

The huge horse, sixteen and a half hands high, jerked his head. He snorted and moved off a few steps.

"That's all right. It's only me," Zan said. "C'mon, you remember me from Shamrock Stables. Corky's place. I must have brushed you down twenty times."

Zan eased toward the animal. "And that was me ducking in and out of your stall, mucking out your monster road apples. Big as bowling balls. Filled two whole wheelbarrows every time. My back still hurts," he said.

Zan stopped once more. The horse was twenty feet away, almost ready to be caught.

"But then, that's all you were ever expected to do: eat and dump," Zan said. "Your owners, the man and his daughter, hardly ever came to ride you."

Zan moved closer and closer. "You got all fat and lazy. Then Corky convinced your owners to donate you to the police department. Now they got you running and trotting and learning new things. Ha! They're making you earn your oats, now," he said.

Zan gently touched Boomer's withers. "Easy now," he said. "You know me."

A loud siren broke in. A squad car screeched around the corner with its lights spinning, heading toward Zan and Boomer. The horse screamed and broke into a full gallop, like the cruiser was chasing him. He headed back toward Officer Mike and the swarm of neighbors gathering around the baby.

Zan stood for a long moment with his hands on his hips. His lower lip was pushed forward.

I almost had him, he thought.

On the way back, he could see a woman who was probably the mother rocking the baby in her arms. She kissed the child on the cheek. Officer Mike leaned against a tree, talking into his radio. The squad car slowed to a crawl, siren and lights off. Boomer kept going at a steady trot, heading toward the stable.

"Hey! Stop him!" Officer Mike called out.

To Zan's surprise, the young girl from the porch ran into the street and grabbed Boomer by the halter. The giant gelding raised his head and easily lifted the girl off her feet.

To her credit, she hung on, shouting, "Bájame! Tonto caballo!" She said again, in English, "Put me down! You stupid horse!"

Boomer seemed to finally notice that something was hanging from his head and speaking to him. He stopped. He lowered his head. As soon as the girl's feet touched the ground, she whacked him on his shoulder.

"Slow down," she said. "Kids play around here, you big dummy!"

Boomer snorted and bobbed his head like he was agreeing with her.

Corky put her hand on the girl's shoulder and smiled the way she did when she liked someone. Especially someone who had a touch with horses.

"What's your name?" Corky asked.

"Luz," the girl said. She smiled back.

Zan hung behind the squad car for a moment longer, then slipped away toward the stables.

The sound of chewing, a tail swishing, a snort, a hoof stomping. Zan lay on a hay bale, at home with the soothing sounds.

There's a lot of wisdom in these horses, he thought. How to walk through a traffic jam, how to push back a line of protesters, how to be still while a child rubs their muzzles. These horses are important. They could pass along what they know to younger horses like Boomer.

Zan wandered up a set of stairs to the second floor. He decided this must have been a hay loft. But now it was empty, all gray, dusty wood and spider webs. Zan ran his hand along a wooden support beam. His fingers felt something on the far side.

Tony 1939.

Someone had carved his name a long time ago.

I wonder if he was one of the policemen in the picture downstairs. Maybe it was raining one day, Zan imagined. Maybe he was sent up here to clean tack or stack hay bales. And maybe he took out his jackknife and decided to let someone, sometime, know he had been here.

Cool. Yeah, but not that cool, Zan reminded himself. He was still a cop. Like the one from Flint who arrested me for shoplifting.

Clop-clop-clop. The sound of horses on a paved street blended with voices coming toward the barn.

Zan leaned over the hole in the floor where hay was dropped for the horses below. Officer Mike was talking to Corky. He could hear their voices, but not what they were saying.

Corky. Zan flashed back to the first time he met her, in her stables with a pregnant mare.

Nick Finazzo — Slick Nick, Mister Clean, Never-Does-Anything-Wrong-Nick — drags me out to Shamrock Stables. The first thing I see is this dark brown horse lying on her side in the foaling stall. Her belly is big as a giant Pilates ball. It squeezes tight and one small hoof pushes out under her tail. Then nothing.

"It's stuck, poor thing. One leg is turned back and it can't get out," Corky says to herself, or maybe to me and Nick. "I don't want to lose momma and baby, too."

While the mare rests between pushes, Corky squats beside her rump and pats her.

"If I could reach in and get that other hoof pointed straight out, everything would be fine," she says. "But my arms and hands are too big."

She looks up toward Nick. He nods, like If you think I can, I'll give it a try. But Corky looks right past him to me.

I stare back. Who you looking at, lady?

"You've got skinny arms and small hands. I need you to help," she says.

I look away.

The mare grunts as her sides tighten up again. The tiny hoof comes out, then the nose.

Corky looks at me. Her face is softer, her voice lower. "The foal is going to die if you don't help," she says.

I look at the baby horse. Its nostrils are shaking, trying to breathe the air outside of its mother. It's straining to get out, to be free.

I nod. I'd do it for the baby. Next thing I know, I'm next to this horse's butt.

I say, "Now what?"

Corky says, "I'm going to push the foal back a bit. That will give you room to reach in. Follow the leg till you get to the hoof. Then cup the hoof with your hand. It's sharp and could tear the mare's insides. Try to ease it forward gently, so it points straight ahead like the other one. Got it?"

"Can do, Zan. Can do," I say, half out loud.

When I look at Nick, he pumps his fist.

Yeah, easy for you, man, I'm thinking. I'm the one sticking my arm up there.

"Now!" Corky grunts, pushing the foal back into the mare.

I slide my hand in beside the foal.

It's tight in there. All nasty, like grandpa spit. And I don't feel anything like a hoof.

"Follow the leg," Corky says. "Can you feel the knee, then the lower leg?"

"Uh-huh. There's the knee," I say. I wiggle and scooch until my whole arm disappears inside the mare. "And that's the rest of the leg, but I still can't feel the hoof."

I look up at Nick and go, "Forget you, man, saying, 'Come see the horses.' Now you got me seeing the horses all right, from the wrong end."

That's when the mare started her squeezing again. Man, that hurt. My whole arm was being squished.

"You're a brave lad, now," Corky says. "Just stay with it. Don't let her push you out, too. When the foal comes forward, try to grab the hoof. Hold on to it 'til the contraction stops. Then you can work it forward."

I go, "Yeah, sure, grab it as it slides by. Right."

Here's me pushing with my feet like some wrestler on TV, just to keep from getting pushed out along with the baby horse. Then one hoof pops out. Then the muzzle. Just like before. So I wiggle in some more.

"There's the hoof!" I yell.

"Do you have your hand around it?" Corky asks.

"Yeah," I say.

"Hang on," Corky says, "the pushing will stop in a moment."

She was right. The squeezing stops. It doesn't hurt anymore.

Corky pushes against the foal's chest and says, "Now, ease the hoof and leg forward."

So I pull with all my might. My arm comes out of the horse, slowly, slowly, until I'm holding a hoof that looks just the other one sticking out.

"Is that it?" I ask.

"We'll find out with the next push," Corky says.

Nick hands me a towel and helps me wash up. "Nice job," he says.

I shake my arm to get the circulation back. "Man, that hurt!" I say.

"You did good, lad," Corky says. Then she squats behind the mare as the belly starts to squeeze again.

Two small hooves push forward, followed by the nose. Then, in a whoosh, the rest of the foal slides out on the straw.

The foal lies still for a second. Is she alive?

Her eyes blink. The momma horse stands up, turns, and smells her new baby. She breathes in her baby's nose and then licks her all over.

I had to gag. I had my hands in that stuff. I know how it smells. How can she lick it? Yuck! Almost made me lose my lunch.

"You okay with food?" Nick asks me, all of a sudden. "You know, your insulin and all that?"

I give him a look, then go off on him. "Hey, I got it covered. Okay?" I say. "My diabetes is not your problem. Where you coming from, all at once playing big brother with me? Where were you when I had my arm up a horse's behind and almost got it squeezed off?"

The voices below Zan got louder and more clear.

Officer Mike was saying, "That girl sure is tiny. But Boomer listened to her better than he ever listens to me. I should have her help our trainer, Danell."

"You have a special trainer?" Corky asked.

"Oh, yeah. You have to have one. It takes at least five months to get a well-broke horse ready for police work," Officer Mike said.

"That would be fun to watch," Corky said.

"Really?" Officer Mike asked. "If you want, I could arrange for a visit to our training facilities. I'm sure Danell would like the company... and the attention. Bring that young fellow along, and while you're at it, that little girl, too. What's her name, again?"

"Luz? I think," Corky said.

"Yeah, Luz. I bet she'd enjoy it, too," Officer Mike said.

"I'll check with her mother," Corky said. "She was one of the women on the next block, right?"

"I don't know," Officer Mike said. "One of the neighbors would be able to tell you."

Zan felt his stomach clench.

Hey, no fair, he thought. I was here first. I paid my dues helping that baby horse get born. I work every Saturday cleaning Corky's stables. Now this girl slides in on the fun stuff.

Luz. Sounds like lose. I wish I could lose her.

A week later, Corky drove both Zan and Luz to the Mounted Police Training Facility. As they pulled into the parking lot, they could see Danell alone in the corral with Boomer.

BANG!

A firecracker exploded. The bay gelding jumped and squealed. With his eyes rolling and ears back, he shied, backing into the oak fence around the training paddock.

"Easy. Easy, Boomer," the trainer said gently to the tall police-horse-in-training.

With his back to the horse, Danell lit two more firecrackers and dropped them near Boomer's feet.

BANG! BANG!

The five-year-old gelding reared, then took off running. He was looking for a way out of the circular cage.

Danell climbed the fence and headed back toward the stables.

"That's mean!" Luz cried.

She ducked back as Boomer galloped by. The corners of her mouth curved down. Breathing heavily through her nose, she stared at Corky and Zan.

"Hey, don't look at me. I don't have anything to do with this," Zan said.

Luz pushed out her lower lip and blew a loose strand of hair across her forehead.

"And they shaved off his mane," she wailed. "It looks like a mohawk. I would have braided it. Like my hair." She paused to get her breath. Tears threatened to spill from her almond-shaped eyes. "That's torturing animals, for no good reason."

Corky smiled, looked at Zan, then nodded toward Luz. Go ahead, she seemed to say, explain it all to the girl.

What am I, a private tutor? Zan thought. 

"Let her figure it out on her own," he muttered.

The corral gate squeaked.

"Now look," Luz called, pointing to Danell. He was leading an older bay gelding and a black mare with a white snip on her nose. "He's bringing more horses to scare with firecrackers."

"Danell's trying to get Boomer used to the loud noises and scary sights he'll face on the street," Zan said. "Isn't that a cool job? You could work with horses and not have to be a policeman."

"So why is he bringing in those old horses, too?" Luz asked.

Zan shrugged.

After a few minutes, all the horses were happily munching on food. Danell turned his back, lit three firecrackers, and tossed them near the horses.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Luz screamed, as surprised as the grazing horses.

The older horses snapped their heads up, hay hanging from their mouths, to see what all the noise was about.

Boomer jumped straight into the air like a basketball player doing a slam dunk. He came down running.

Luz banged her fists against Corky's hip. "Tell him to stop!" she shouted.

Boomer circled the ring once. He slowed to a canter, then to a trot. Soon, he was walking toward the older horses, who were back to eating like nothing had happened.

Zan laughed out loud. "Now I get it," he said. "Danell is using the older horses to show Boomer how to handle loud noises. Check it out, but don't run. See? He's acting calmer already."

Danell leaned against the fence next to the visitors. "What do you think?" he asked.

"Cool!" Zan said.

"Cruel!" Luz argued.

Danell nodded. "I see," he said. "Tell you what, follow me. We can talk while I groom Boomer."

Danell worked the currycomb along Boomer's withers and stood on his tiptoes to stroke the gelding's back.

"Our horses aren't lapdogs," he began. "And we don't try to show them or enter them in competitions. They're working horses, not pets. They have a job to do, and we have to depend on them to do it."

Zan nodded. "Like seeing eye dogs or drug-sniffing dogs," he said.

"Exactly!" Danell said, smiling at Zan.

"It's still cruel," Luz said, "the way you do it."