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microphone as Starr removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and lowered himself down the curtain.
    He believed his words—knew them to be true. But he also knew words couldn’t put food on the table. And prayers couldn’t make it rain. He’d snatched peaches as a kid, eaten rotten fruit, worms and all. Knowing full well diarrhea would flush it all by morning, he’d done it just to hush his angry stomach enough to sleep. Words had to turn to actions soon, just like clouds had to bring rain, or the violence would return.
    By the time the greenhorn state senator reached the ground a smattering of farmers had begun to load a wagon with broken glass. Starr breathed deep, grateful he’d managed to scarf down two eggs, a roll and half a sausage on Rodchenko’s dime. He watched as the professor marched a beat northward up San Jacinto, back toward campus. Overall, it looked like a few had been injured and several shops damaged. Remarkable, considering the potential for loss. He accepted some gloves from an apologetic young farmer, no older than the students. Time for some honest work .

FOUR
    Clarity of Communication

    Willy snorted and stamped as Starr swung himself over the stable railing, landing ankle-deep in sawdust. “I know, boy. It’s been one of those days.” The horse tossed its head, flaring his nostrils twice more to punctuate his complaint before settling down and accepting the late daily grooming.
    Starr ran the curry comb over the horse’s dappled grey shoulder, gratefully absorbing the earthy odors. No scent of the modern world could compete with the mixture of grain, seasoned leather and the dander of horse hide. It was perfume to him—a window into his stint as a bronc rider in a world with simpler rules.
    There had been competition, sure, but no good guys and bad guys. And the only enemy had been the clock. He closed his eyes and felt the pregnant ticks of time slow and swell to absorb the very confines of his skull. Only on the back of a bristling beast, a chain reaction of angry energy, could a single second expand so infinitely. Those eternal ticks of the second hand had claimed him hundreds of times, plunging him under the surface of conscious life and whisking him to places of conquest and possibility.
    In those moments a raw giftedness pervaded him, possessed him—like a cosmic understanding of time and space. Mastering those tiny fragments of eternity against chaos itself had empowered him. And when the chaotic forces of his new life began to tug him under, the mere memory proved calming.
    “God, I loved to ride.” He slapped Willy on the rump. “But politics is a whole different animal, boy.” He ran the comb along the animal’s flank. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for it. Don’t get me wrong. I was good today, damn good. But I can’t figure the rules.” He scratched at some crusted mud on Willy’s hide. “I can’t catch its pulse like the old days.”
    The horse snorted. “Ah, don’t pretend you’re still sore. You never were much count as a bronc anyway.” Willy pawed the ankle-deep sawdust. Starr consoled his companion, “But you’re a good friend. The best I got.” He added the last words with a sense of resignation, slipping out of his calming reverie and back into the stress of the present.
    He’d anticipated life to lunge left and dip its shoulder, but instead it had spun on its heels. And he felt that same sick feeling. His center of gravity gone, only a sudden reverse could put him back in the saddle. He methodically ran the comb over Willy’s hide, allowing his thoughts to coalesce.
    Less than an hour after the riot an invitation had come via Ms. Lloyd to meet his mysterious boss of the last six months, but he couldn’t decide. Was this the direction he needed? Or was he about to get caught up under the hooves? A part of him wanted the eventful day to end—bail out and live to ride another day.
    But he couldn’t help it. There was still a chance to ride it