I finally return with the right bridle in hand to find my children's house guest--the barely-thirteen-year-old who's all arms and legs and tangled blond hair down to her bony shoulder blades, the one who seems oblivious to her own pale beauty, as if mirrors simply didn't exist, and who's hardly been around horses, having spent most of her life in the city--with her skinny arms wrapped around Teyla's neck in a sweet embrace, long fingers intertwined in her salt and pepper mane, head pressed against the appaloosa mare she hasn't a clue is made out of steel and granite.

I start to tell her that the horse really doesn't like much hugging, that she was a rescue from a series of bad situations, and that she's really not big on the mooshy gooshy stuff, she likes her room, you see--but instead of tossing me her usual long-suffering glance, the gritty Teyla turns her head towards me and sighs, eye softening.

And I don't.