The morning of the stallion parade.
Although everyone at the farm had started working around one in the morning with the resolve to finish even if they got no sleep, they barely completed the setup an hour before the stallion parade was due to begin.
Physical examinations, baths, grooming, hoof oil—each task seemed ordinary enough, but with four stallions combined, they became a rather daunting undertaking.
Especially Noah, who still had not overcome his aversion to baths even after retirement. That normally impeccable good boy alone had taken up quite a bit of time.
After returning to the room, I tossed the stallion handbook, now filled with notes, onto the table and headed straight for the bathroom.
I turned on the shower, and while the water slowly rose from a terrifyingly cold temperature, I stuffed all the wet clothes into the washing machine, added detergent, and started it.
The sound of water filling the drum rang out, and before long, it began to turn.
"Ah—I almost forgot."
I glanced at the fabric softener beside the detergent. Though I hesitated, I ultimately decided to put it out of my mind.
There was probably still some time to spare, but the subconscious sense that it was already too late had taken over.
A breeding farm might not operate twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year without pause, but it did run year-round. Mares and foals needed constant care, and then there were the even more troublesome retired horses and stallions.
As a horse breeder, from the day I entered the industry—or even earlier, when I began work as a veterinarian—I had reminded myself that since I had chosen work involving large livestock because I loved it, I should face the animals in my care and the people I