Why do they chain my legs? Why? Isn’t the whole point that I should run fast and pull well?

I swear the renters enjoy ticking that little box on the leasing form, the one that says “Legs shackled during use.” As if it’s a special treat. Maybe it is… for them.

And why not chain the escort mare too? Why doesn’t she get hitched to the wagon beside me? Why is it always me in the harness… me stumbling forward on tiny steps… me dragging the cart with my ankles bound so tight I can barely stretch my stride?

And then, during the rest stop, who gets the bit taken out? Who gets the sugar cube? Her. Always her. I don’t even have the strength left to stamp my foot in protest. I just breathe… and swallow it.

But still - Damn it. Damn it all.