Hellsborough Exposed

Onetoes look like horses built by someone who'd only ever had a horse described to them — closer inspection shows a single hoof per leg that doesn't divide, punching a straight line into the mud instead of leaving an oval print. They stand in fields watching the road and don't graze in any way I've confirmed; when something interests them, they simply start considering it, and the considering can go on far longer than seems reasonable for an animal that size. An onetoe that's decided you're worth its attention won't chase — it matches your pace field for field, wall for wall, the weight of being looked at pressing on you the whole way, and it clears a drystone wall clean without a run-up if you try to use one as cover. Van doesn't file things away twice as a rule; he either remembers or he doesn't. Three pages of his notes on the onetoe exist regardless, most of them crossed out, and what survived to the last line is a single word, underlined once: classified. I've read that page more times than I'll admit, and I still don't know what an onetoe decides about a person once it's finished deciding, only that whatever it was, Van didn't want it on paper.