The world outside the barn keeps spinning, but for Julian, time seems to freeze. News of the sabotage and Thunder's panic spreads like wildfire—first in town, then online. By sunrise, social media is full of heated debates, wild speculation, and hashtags like #BanThunder and #JusticeForJulian. Some posts rally in support, but others are filled with blame, judgment, and fear.
Julian tries not to look at his phone, but the temptation is too strong. He scrolls through the comments, his fingers shaking, every nasty word echoing in his mind: "Dangerous animal," "Reckless kid," "Just lucky, never skilled."
All day, the barn is tense. Even the horses sense the change. Every creak of wood or clang of metal makes Thunder's head shoot up, muscles coiling tight. Julian keeps to himself, his side aching from the fall, mind swirling with worry. He replays the night's events over and over, searching for anything he missed, any clue about who would want to hurt them, any sign he might have seen earlier. But all he finds is doubt and anger—the same feelings he fought to overcome for years.
By late afternoon, the festival organizers call. Their voices are polite but wary. "Julian, after what happened last night, we're concerned about safety. There are rumors Thunder is unstable. Some people want to ban him from the main event. We need to know if you and Thunder can really perform under pressure. If not, maybe it's best to step back."
The words hit Julian harder than he expects. He promises he'll be ready, but when the call ends, his hands are trembling. What if they're right? What if Thunder can't handle the crowds, the noise, the lights?
He tries to practice, but Thunder's skittish. Every time a door bangs or a voice echoes, the stallion flinches, dancing away from Julian's cues. It's like the old days when trust was fragile and every ride felt like a gamble. Julian's frustration builds with every failed attempt, shame simmering beneath his skin.
After another rough session, he wheels Thunder back to the stall and slumps in his chair, staring at the dirt. Maybe I should just quit. Maybe Thunder would be safer if I let him go.
As the sun sets, painting the world in dusky gold, Julian's mom finds him alone in the barn. She kneels beside him, brushing straw from his shoulder.
"Julian, you're not alone in this," she says quietly. "I know you're scared, but you and Thunder—what you have isn't about one performance or what people say online. It's about trust. It's about believing in each other when no one else will."
Julian doesn't answer. Not at first. He watches Thunder, who stands at the back of the stall, eyes weary but fixed on Julian.
Finally, he whispers, "What if I can't do it? What if I let him down? What if everyone's right?"
His mom takes his hand. "When you were in the hospital after the accident, do you remember what you said to me? You said you'd find another way to race the wind, even if you couldn't use your legs. Thunder is your wind now. Don't give up on him, and don't give up on yourself."