Tap. Tap.

You should practice on an orange. People say that it works as a proxy for human injections, but it’s almost exactly like injecting a horse. A horse’s skin is just that little bit thicker. Practice on an orange a lot.

Stand at her shoulder with your back to her head. Block her view. There is a triangle on a horse’s neck that’s all muscle and that’s the one I want you to go for. That’s right, in the middle. Block her view, poise the needle between your fingers like a pen and tap her with the back of your loose fist until she relaxes at your touch. Then flip the needle around and be confident. Pow. Tell me you washed your hands.

Draw it back a little. You don’t want to see blood. If you do, pull out, walk her around the paddock and try again. Inject slowly but surely. Each medicine has an injection speed - look up what you are using. If you take too long, she will move and that’s a mess.

When I was in high school we had horses and wouldn’t it would be cool if the horses had horses but you know I’d never really thought hard about the hereditary ability of horses to have twins and wouldn’t you know the very first time out of the gate Willow conceived twins and we didn’t know she looked big like it was our first time and her first time and we didn’t know much until she lost them. I wasn’t spared much authenticity growing up on a farm but somehow I was not there that morning. I was fifteen. Willow lived but it was not a guarantee and so much for my mom to handle. I took over Willow’s care.

I practiced on a juicy navel orange with a big belly button. In the kitchen, at the table, I tap tap tap tap tap tapped it and then flipped my hand like a magician to inject. Always the same number: seven for luck. You have to perfect the pressure. You have to instill confidence in your patient.

I gave Willow medicine four times a day. There were other things too but whatever mash or washing paled compared to those needles. I stood with my back to her. Thin, but tall enough. Sometimes she curled her neck around me in gentle closeness but I had to push her straight. Tap tap tap tap tap tap slap.

Years later I had to inject myself. I didn’t practice on an orange; I know I’m an imposter. I whispered about my medicine to airport security when I traveled so we didn’t have to make a scene in front of my coworkers about the needles in my carry on. It was a secret I was keeping, wearing my blazer buttoned, covering my stomach with my folio when presenting.

In my hotel room I sit and stare at my thigh, imagining a triangle on a muscular buckskin neck. Trying not to tense up. Imagining Willow’s neck curling around me, her nose nuzzling my pocket for treats. I slowly start to tap my leg hard as rock. Tap. Tap. Tap. I stare across the room at the flowers at the fruit bowl. Tap. Tap. I’m sweating. Tap. Slap. I’m not meant for this. I feverishly wonder if I’ve been injecting the same medicine all along; one to bring Willow back from miscarriage, the other to keep my baby inside. Every time I peel an orange, I admire the depth and oiliness of the skin, how it holds its fruit safe. I admire it like a mantra. Tap tap tap tap tap tap. Slap.