Maya Saves a Horse

We're not staying here, Maya thought, even if it does have a mechanical bull.

Her friends leaped out of the car, leaving her with their Uber driver. The two of them squealed and yelped their way across the gravel parking lot in a cloud of dust. In their minidresses, they looked and sounded more like teenagers than wives and mothers with husbands and toddlers at home.

Maya stared out the open car door at the cinder block building whose red neon sign proclaimed the place Darla's. The narrow lot was lined with enormous pickup trucks, some of which boasted Confederate flag stickers that matched the neon's bold color. Something dangled from the trailer hitch on the truck nearest the bar. Maya gradually realized that it was a pair of big metal testicles, grotesque and vulgar even at this distance.

The driver's brown eyes found hers in the rearview mirror.

“It's all right,” she said. “We won't be here long.”

A skeptical frown creased the smooth copper skin between his dark brows. Maya smiled sadly into her lap. She knew what he was thinking. The cinder block redneck bar was the setting for many a cautionary tale passed down through generations of Black families – the boogeyman partied in a place like this.

But this place had a mechanical bull. He wouldn't understand why that was important.

“You have my number, right?” the driver asked. When Maya nodded, he followed suit and said, “If anything happens, you call me. Don’t go...