The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

called her Maggie. “Maggie, hang on.”
I pulled her hand farther around my waist. She leaned her head between
my shoulder blades, muttering to herself. I worked hard to keep the horse
steady but walking fast. I didn’t know how far we had to go.
“M’mother likes Jonathan better than me,” Maggie said, more loudly. “She
doesn’t really like girls. She’ll do anything for him, but she’s always cross
with me.”
“My mam likes my brother better too,” I said. “She hates me, because of
my foot.”
I could feel her lean over to look at my bad foot. I was glad that it was
bandaged. She swayed, off balance. “Careful,” I said.
“Mmm,” she said.
“A brewer’s cart ran over it,” I said.
“Oh,” Maggie said. “Well, that’s a silly reason to hate you.”
The horse clomped on. Maggie’s head bounced against my shoulder. “It
wasn’t a brewer’s cart,” I said, after a pause. “It’s a clubfoot.” That word the
doctor had used.
“Oh, clubfoot.” Her voice slurred. “I’ve heard of that. We had a foal born
with a clubfoot.”
The horse turned again, down a long gravel drive planted on both sides
with straight rows of trees. He stepped faster now, swinging his head. Maggie
groaned. “I’m going to be sick,” she said.
“Not on the horse,” I said.
“Mmm,” she said, and was, but she leaned over far enough that most of the
sick missed the saddle. Then she nearly fell off. I grabbed her. The horse
swung his head impatiently.
“He’s always happier going home,” Maggie murmured. “Rotten bugger.”
“What’s a foal?” I asked.
“What? Oh—a baby horse. We had a horse born with a clubfoot. That’s
what Grimes called it.” She swayed again. “I feel awful.”
I tried to imagine a little horse with a twisted hoof. Butter’s hooves were
long and curling, but they didn’t twist. What would a horse do if it couldn’t
walk? No crutches for horses. Were there?
“Did it die, then?” I asked.