Free Runaway by Dandi Daley Mackall

eyes, she’s trying to scare you back. Check out those groovy ears, man! Flat down, out to the side, scaredy-cat. Ears pinned back, she’s trying to scare you . Read her whiskers. Pointed forward and up, she’s scared. If she’s nervous, she’ll whip her tail low, back and forth. If she’s really scared, she’ll puff up her hair to look bigger.”
    Kat stops reading. “Isn’t Catman the best? Hank says his cousin doesn’t talk much in person, but he writes me long e-mails.”
    “So does he tell you what to do when Kitten gets scared?” I’ve read about horses’ fight-or-flight reaction, and I’m wondering how much of this translates.
    Kat turns back to the computer screen. “He says I should never stare at Kitten. And I can give her a ‘cat kiss.’” Kat grins at me. “That’s when you blink in slow motion at your cat, when she’s looking at you.”
    Annie breaks us up because she has to leave for work. Kat follows her outside, which gives me a chance to check e-mail. I log in to my personal e-mail first. Neil has left me a message:
    How are motor plans coming along?
    Short and sweet. I dash off an answer, equally short and sweet:
    Learning to drive a truck.
    I log out of my own e-mail and go back to Annie’s. Winnie left me another long e-mail. It’s even better than Catman’s. It’s as if Winnie has been watching the three horses with me. She describes the exact body language I observed. Then she tells me how to do the same thing, how to become Blackfire’s leader. I try to memorize her instructions about using my own body language to communicate with the horse. She even gives me exercises I could do with Blackfire in Hank’s round pen.
    Popeye comes back in after seeing Annie off, and he looks like his mom just dropped him off for the first day of school.
    Suddenly he straightens out of his slump and claps his hands. “As I recall, today is the beginning of Dakota Brown’s career on wheels! Right this way!”
    “Heads up!” Hank calls, tossing me a bagel. “Can’t drive on an empty stomach.”
    I take a bite of the bagel and jog to catch up with Popeye, who’s halfway to the truck already. “We’ll just stay on the property for now,” he explains. “After Saturday, when you pass the written driver’s exam, we can venture out a bit.”
    “Driver’s exam? Saturday?”
    “You’ll still have to take driver’s ed in the fall.”
    I can’t really tell him I don’t need a permit since next week I’ll be driving to Chicago without a license. I suppose it won’t hurt to get the permit, though.
    “You can study Hank’s exam book,” Popeye offers when we reach the truck. He opens the driver’s door for me, and I slide in. By the time he gets in the other side, I have the key in the ignition.
    “Not bad so far,” he comments. “Except, aren’t you forgetting something?”
    I glance around the truck. “Where’s the thingamadeal that moves the seat up?”
    He shows me, and I adjust the seat. Then I fix the mirrors and get ready to turn the key.
    Popeye stops me. “Ah-ah-ah. What are we forgetting?”
    At this rate, our first driving lesson will take all day, and I won’t even get to drive. “I give up.”
    “Rhymes with ‘heat melt,’” he says, grinning.
    I snap on my seat belt and wait for him to do the same.
    For the next hour Popeye tells me—in excruciating detail—the nature of each of the truck’s gears, the movements required for each gear, the road conditions that warrant shifting gears, and more hints than I could possibly use over the next 50 years.
    By the time he actually lets me touch the accelerator, I’m seriously considering walking to Chicago.
    Hank strolls up. “Safe to come out of the barn yet?”
    “I think that’s enough for lesson one,” Popeye answers, cheerful as ever. “After lunch, we can pick up where we left off.”
    In the afternoon, Popeye gives me a driving demonstration, followed by pretend driving. We take a break, during which