Zecora carefully pulled Macintosh back into her hut; not a difficult task, considering how terribly thin the once tall and muscular stallion had become. She set him upon her cot and lowered an ear to his barrel. His heartbeat mirrored his breathing, ragged and uneven. He wasn't just exhausted, he was practically dying. She caught a scent on his breath: the scent of berries rotting in the sun. She went cold.