Free Unhappy Appy by Dandi Daley Mackall

turned on the light again, and the great outdoors returned. AstroTurf covered the floor and the walls and even the toilet. I washed my hands and got out of there.
    In the living room, Madeline was helping Mason into his jacket.
    â€œThere you are! Shall we go meet us some horses?” Dad asked.
    I nodded.
    Any other time, I would have loved the idea of helping a kid like Mason over his fear of horses. Why did he have to be Madeline’s kid?

Once out of the Edison house, I raced for the truck.
    â€œLet’s all go in my van!” Madeline shouted.
    â€œGood idea,” Dad agreed, although it couldn’t have been a good idea. Now he’d have to come back with them just to pick up the truck.
    I tried to get Dad’s attention, but he was already lifting Mason into the green minivan.
    Dad and Mason sat in back because the middle was too full of junk, and I rode shotgun with Madeline. She drove a lot faster than Dad. I figured if he hadn’t been reading a rhyming book to Mason, he would have asked her to slow down.
    â€œMason likes you, Winnie,” Madeline said matter-of-factly, not like adults say to bigger kids when they want you to like their little kids.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with him?” I blurted out. Then, as soon as I’d said the words, I was sorry. “I didn’t mean—”
    â€œThat’s all right.” She passed a car like it was standing still. “Some people call Mason handicapped. I call him handi-capable. He has a lot going on inside of him. We’re still working on getting it out. He’s not always like he is today. He can say a few words. And we’re both learning sign language.”
    She didn’t seem to mind talking about it, so I asked, “Was he born . . . like this?”
    She shook her head. “Head trauma . . . when he was just a baby.”
    Head trauma. My mind flashed me a picture. I tried to block it out, but I never can. I could see my mom’s head against the steering wheel, blood trickling down her cheek. My mind had taken the photo seconds after the wreck that killed my mother.
    I wanted to know more about Mason’s head trauma, if he’d been in a wreck, too. But I wouldn’t have wanted Madeline to ask me about Mom’s accident. I changed the subject. “So where’s Mason’s dad?”
    â€œWinnie!” Dad shouted up to us. I hadn’t noticed he’d finished reading.
    We’d turned onto our street. Madeline pulled up to the curb and got out to help Mason.
    Dad rushed up to me. “Winnie, what did you say to Madeline?” he whispered.
    â€œNothing.”
    Light glowed from inside our house, and I saw Hawk sitting in Dad’s chair, probably studying.
    I led the way to the barn. Just smelling the hay and horse in my barn helped me get a grip on things again. This was my turf, the only place I felt really at home
    Nickers came in from the pasture to greet me in her stall and nickered. She must have rolled in the mud. Dirt caked on her back and tangled her mane and tail.
    â€œIs that your horse?” Madeline asked. “It looks so different from the other day.”
    â€œShe just needs a good brushing.” I led Nickers out to the stallway. “Come and meet Mason, Nickers.”
    Madeline stood behind Mason, her hands on his shoulders. Neither of them budged.
    Dad took Mason’s hand and led him over. “Come on, Mason. Winnie’s great with horses.”
    Madeline trailed after them, her hands still on her son’s shoulders, as if he were helium-filled and might float like his furniture.
    Next to Nickers’ stall, Towaco stood over his hay trough, not bothering to munch hay from it or from the hay net.
    Mason turned and stared at Towaco the way he’d stared at the window, like there was nothing in the barn, in the world, except that horse. He started toward the Appy’s stall.
    â€œNot that horse!” Madeline