The Harness and the Cart
Copyright© 2026 by BareLin
Chapter 3: The Witness
The following vehicle stays behind us for the rest of the route. I can see Agent Chen’s silhouette through the windshield, her head occasionally turning to observe something: a pedestrian who stops too long to stare, a car that slows to match our pace, the way Santa’s shoulders bunch with each step on the uphill stretch back toward the drop zone.
I didn’t look back. I kept my eyes on Santa’s ears, on the road ahead, on the familiar landmarks that mark our progress. The burned-out shell of the tire shop. The billboard is advertising luxury condominiums. The overpass where the graffiti changes every month, but the smell of urine never fades.
Yet, my mind was elsewhere. It was in the county building, watching Agent Chen’s face as Santa stood between Delgado and me. It was in the stall last night, holding Santa’s mittened hand in the darkness. It was on the business card, delivered to the county clerk’s office, lost to me forever, or maybe not lost. Maybe exactly where it needed to be.
The drop zone was empty when we arrived. The truck won’t come for another twenty minutes. I unhitched Santa from the cart and led her to the shaded patch beneath the overpass. The concrete pillars were cool against my back when I sat, and Santa lowered herself to the ground beside me, her head resting against my thigh.
Agent Chen’s sedan pulled into the turnout. The engine cut off. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the driver’s door opened, and Agent Chen stepped out.
She’s shorter than I thought. The suit gave her presence, but without it or perhaps because I’m sitting on the ground, she seemed almost small. Her shoes were sensible flats, not the heels I imagined. Her face, in the harsh midday light, showed lines around her mouth and eyes that spoke of long hours and harder conversations.
She walked toward us slowly, her steps careful on the gravel. When she was ten feet away, she stopped. She didn’t crouch down to my level. She didn’t look. She simply stood there, her portfolio at her side, and waited.
“You can sit,” I say. “If you want. The gravel’s not comfortable, but it’s better than standing.”
She considered this, then lowered herself to the ground across from me. She’s close enough to talk, far enough to give space. She’s done this before.
“Your pony,” she said, her eyes moving to Santa. “She defended you.” It was not a question, but I answered anyway.
“She did.”
“That’s unusual.”
“She’s unusual.”
Agent Chen’s gaze lingers on Santa’s harness, on the bit, on the bruises visible on her hips. “The report from the Delgado estate flagged a client interaction yesterday. It was marked as ‘satisfactory’.”
I feel my jaw tighten. “It was marked that way.”
“Was it satisfactory?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I could lie. I could protect myself, protect Santa, protect the contract that keeps us fed and housed and technically not dead. I could say yes and watch Agent Chen nod and stand and walk back to her sedan and drive away, and nothing would change.
However, something has already changed. Santa growled at Victor Delgado. She stood between me and a man who could have her punished, retrained, or sold to another estate without a second thought. She risked everything for me. I can do no less for her.
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t satisfactory.”
Agent Chen’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture shifted. She opened her portfolio and pulled out a small recording device.
“I’m going to record this conversation,” she said. “Do you understand what that means?”
“It means you have a record. It means you can use it.”
“It means,” she said carefully, “that what you say can’t be taken back. It can be used in legal proceedings. It can be used against the estate. It can be used against you if what you say contradicts the terms of your contract.”
I look down at Santa. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow. She was not asleep, I can tell by the tension in her jaw, but she’s at rest. Trusting me.
“I understand,” I say.
Agent Chen pressed a button on the device. A small red light blinked on.
“Please state your name and designation for the record.”
“Athena Valenzuela. SF3JD33.”
“And your pony’s designation?”
“PNY356. Santa Sanchez.”
“Ms. Valenzuela, can you describe the client interaction at the Delgado estate on the date of...?”
“Yesterday,” I interrupted. “It was yesterday, and yes, I can describe it.”
And I do. I told her about the courtyard, the way Delgado looked at Santa like she was livestock. I told her about the signature, the way he took my wrist and guided my hand to his belt. I told her about the second man, the one whose name I don’t know, who stood behind Santa while Delgado watched. I told her about the way the cart rocked, the sounds Santa made, the way I couldn’t turn around because Delgado’s hand was on my breast and his eyes were on my face and his voice was in my ear telling me I was doing a good job.
I told her about the tears. About Delgado licking them off my cheek. About the business card he handed me to give to Hale, as if nothing had happened. As if we were just another delivery, another transaction, another satisfied client.
When I finished, my voice was hoarse. I didn’t realize I’d spoken so long. The sun had moved, the shadow of the overpass shifting so that half of Agent Chen’s face was in shadow.
She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t ask questions. She’s just listened, her recording device on the gravel between us, her eyes steady on my face.
“Thank you,” she says finally. “I know that wasn’t easy.”
I laugh. It came out wrong, too sharp, too loud. “Easy. No. It wasn’t easy.”
“You mentioned a bill. When we first met, you mentioned the bill.”
I blink. “I didn’t mention any bill.”
“You didn’t have to. The way you looked at the payphone. The way you reached for the pouch before you delivered it.” She pauses. “I saw you. I see you, Ms. Valenzuela.”
Something in my chest cracked open. I didn’t know what it was: a wall I built, a lock I turned, a door I closed five years ago when I signed that first contract. Whatever it was, it broke, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe.
“There’s a bill,” Agent Chen continues, her voice low. “SB 1472. It’s currently in committee. It would mandate an annual review of all indefinite service contracts, with a specific focus on programs like this one. It would require documented, ongoing consent. It would prohibit permanent attachment of service gear.”
She paused. Her eyes moved to my collar, to the straps that crossed my chest, to Santa’s harness.
“It would require that all such gear be removable at the request of the contracted individual.”
My hand went to my collar. The leather is warm from my skin. I’d worn it so long I’d forgotten what it felt like not to have it there. I’d forgotten the weight on my neck.
“When?” I asked. My voice was barely a whisper.
“The committee hearing is in three weeks. If it passes the committee, it goes to the floor. If it passes the floor...” She spreads her hands. “It’s not a guarantee. There’s significant opposition. The program administrators have been lobbying hard. They’ve framed it as a jobs program, a vocational opportunity. They’ve painted the contracts as a choice.”
“A choice,” I repeat. The word tasted like ash.
“I know.” Agent Chen’s voice is softer now. “I know it’s not that simple. I’ve been doing this for twelve years. I’ve seen the contracts. I’ve talked to the girls who signed them. I know what it means to be eighteen and alone and scared.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask. “Why now?”
She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was different. Less official. More human.
“Because of a girl named Maria. She was a pony girl. PNY112. She was assigned to an estate in Northern California. She died three years ago. The official cause was dehydration during a long route, but when I read the file, when I looked at the photos, I saw...” She stops. Swallows. “I saw a girl who had been working to death. I saw bruises that weren’t from a harness. I saw a body that had been used until there was nothing left.”
The gravel is sharp beneath me. The sun is hot on my shoulders. Santa’s head is heavy on my thigh.
“I’ve been fighting for this bill for three years,” Agent Chen says. “Every session, it gets a little further. Every session, someone new reads the testimony and decides to care, but it’s not enough. I need more than testimony from former contractors. I need current testimony. I need people who are in the system, right now, to speak.”
She looked at me. Her eyes were dark, serious, alive with something that might be hope or might be desperation.
“I can’t promise you anything,” she said. “If you speak, there will be consequences. The estate will know. Hale will know. Your contract has a clause about conduct detrimental to the program’s reputation. They could punish you. They could...”