Before Dutch can give me my clover, she has to wander around town high out of her mind. As Fullmoon Bay’s only dealer, she has the power to do that. Make me wait, I mean. Dutch is also a six-foot-three diamond dog with yellow teeth and muscles thick like mangrove vines. I’ve seen her put them to use when she feels like it. I’d rather not try to piss her off.

That’s getting harder these days, though. She’s on something new, lately. She just calls it “red.” It makes her eyes glint like broken glass when she takes it, even when I’m being held hostage in the dark of her apartment that smells like mold and ashes and stagnant water while she uses.

She’ll wrap an arm around my neck or grab me by the horn and tell me to watch and I try not to swallow too loud because she hates that sound and says she’ll bite my throat out if I can’t shut up, and then laughs when I don’t say anything. I can never tell if she’s joking or not.

She thanks me for being her number one customer because now she can afford the good shit, then dumps a small mob of crystals and gems into her paw. She always makes me watch. The gems glow all sorts of different colors, even in the dark. They’re cut in strange, inorganic patterns that mean something to Dutch because she’ll try to explain which ones are going to fuck her up the most. She gathers them in one massive paw, rolling them back and forth, listening to the sound of precious things clinking together.

And then she smashes them between the palms of her paws, shattering them into pieces, into shards, into dust. The sound makes my stomach feel like it’s trying to swallow itself. Dutch’s paws always come out of using red shaking, torn to shreds, and bleeding. I’ve never once seen her care about it. Then, she hoists herself up, tugs me by the saddlebags, and tells me that we’re going to run errands together.

I used to think I would stay in Fullmoon Bay forever. Not out of love for the town or any romantic things like that, but mostly because I’m not shit, never will be shit, and can’t bring myself to care about being shit. This place was supposed to grow infinitely old and never change with me along with it, hopelessly addicted to clover and bouts of depression until I keel over and that’ll be that. Laziness is a hard lifestyle to change once you’re in it.

Red is changing that, though. The more time I spend with Dutch, the more creatures I recognize with the same expression as her—mouth hanging open like a broken door, feet or hooves shuffling limply along the dirt, and their eyes.

The eyes are the worst part. There’s a lost look in them, like they don’t remember how to use them anymore. They rarely focus on anything, and when they do, whatever they land on tends to get turned into a police report.

Destruction of property, disturbance of the peace, vandalism, and it’s getting worse. Dutch is getting worse.

There’s something about her today as she stuffs my saddlebags with random things. Towels, rubber gloves, scented candles, eyes eating through everything they see.

“I need you to pick this one up for me, Feather,” she says. “Don’t have a lot on me right now, but you can just fucking have your clover when we get back, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem. Seems fair enough,” I say. Dutch smiles wide enough that I can see how many teeth she’s missing. She thumps me on the back and almost knocks the wind out of me.

“That’s my number one right there. I can always count on you,” she says.

I pay. We leave. Back to roaming the streets. Dutch rambles on about nothing until she stops dead in her tracks. I turn and look at Dutch and see spit dribbling down the front of her muzzle.

“Yo, you okay, Dutch?” I ask her, but Dutch isn’t paying attention. Her eyes are staring at something across the road, deathly focused. I follow her gaze and my chest seizes up.

It’s a kid. A foal no older than 8 on his scooter looking at us, just standing there by a light pole. He’s got a bright blue backpack and a gap between his front teeth. He doesn’t say a word.

“Fuck you looking at,” Dutch says. It’s not a question.

“Dutch.”

“No, fuck that. Kid, I said the fuck you looking at?”

Dutch steps into the road. There’s nobody around but us. The kid is still silent. Just looking.

“Come on, Dutch. He’s not doing anything. Let’s go.”

“Come here,” Dutch says, even though she’s still walking towards him. “Don’t make me walk over there.”

“Dutch.”

She’s still walking, shambling at him and the kid still isn’t moving gods dammit.

“Hey, kid, you need to leave. Get out of here,” I tell him, and nothing changes. Dutch is still walking. He’s still standing there, even when Dutch gets right up on him.

“Look at me. I said gods damn look at me, you little fucker. Do I look like I’m joking? I’ll fuck you up. Look at me and tell me what’s up. You want to come up on us like that? I’ll fuck you up, swear on my stars—”

“Dutch!” I yell, and the rest happens so fast.

She shoves him. Hard. The kid flies back, and there’s a sickening crack as the back of his head connects with the pole. He doesn’t even make a sound as he goes down. His body is stiff, front hooves shooting forward where they tremble in the air.

Dutch yells at him. I yell at her. Blood pools beneath the kid’s head.

“That’s what the fuck I thought! That’s what I thought, you little shit!”

“Dutch, oh fuck, oh fuck, why did you do that? The fuck is wrong with you? Oh gods, he needs a hospital. Why did you do that? Dutch!”

Her fist connects with my shoulder. Something pops out of place. My head hits the gravel road and my ears ring. It’s hard to breathe. When my eyes can focus again, Dutch is in my face, snarling. Her eyes are raging, bloodshot, red like a fresh scab.

“Fuck no, we’re not going to a hospital. Are you fucking stupid? Do you want me to get caught? Get up. We’re getting the fuck out of here, Feather. I said get up.”

I don’t. I can’t. All I can do is lie there and look at the kid. He’s not moving as much anymore. He’s breathing in irregular, gasping breaths. My eyes meet his, but there’s nothing behind them.

Dutch hoists me up. My shoulder feels like it’s going to explode. She sets me on my hooves and shoves me ahead of her. I limp forward while looking at the kid. He’s still bleeding. I want to throw up.

Dutch takes me back to the apartment where she dumps another handful of red into her paws and crushes the stuff. Her eyes lose their focus again, and she takes a deep breath before handing me a bag of clover.

“Fuck, I’m sorry about all that. Just got too hyped up, you know? ‘S all good though, right?” she says, and my lips feel so tight that I can barely get any words out.

“Yeah, it’s cool. All good, man,” I say.

“I put a little extra in there for you, by the way,” she says, and then winks.

“Thanks,” I say, and my stomach curdles with self-resentment.

“Now get outta here.”

I call the police when I get home. I tell them some kid slammed his head riding his scooter and give them the street name and hang up.

I pack the clover into a pipe and my hooves are shaking when I light it. I try to inhale. The embers burn a sickening red.

I vomit all over the floor. I want to die right then and there. I don’t know how long I cry for, but by the end of it, I have my suitcase in front of me along with everything I own stuffed inside it. My hoof bumps against my pipe, and I pick it up. There’s still clover in the bowl.

I break it in half and let it fall to the floor again.

The stars are out when I leave. The moon is only a sliver, capsized in the sky among a sea of stars. Their glow unnerves me, so I keep my eyes on the road as I limp my way through the dark, out of town, and into the unknown.