Now that she was close to him, James could see there was much to this pony she had missed. Namely: he’d been flying through injuries. They looked like the sort a pony might encounter while exploring somewhere dangerous—bruises, deep lacerations on his legs and the bottom of his barrel, a whole chunk of flesh missing and covered with dried bandage. Every injury had been inexpertly field-dressed, or at least it looked like they had from the shreds of cloth roughly approximating the color of his coat that now littered the bunk. Dorothy had cut all of them away with contempt, and filled the room with a scent of unmistakable infection.