Ennison looked down on him in disgust. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. She heard the sounds of Rhea scuttling about, and then feeding, brutally. Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual.
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