The feelings of being handled, feeling passed around, stretched, moved, turned over, poked, measured. This was a weird place. Shadowy figures were all around the lanky foal. They were muttering, pointing, nodding and shaking their heads. What was going on? Suddenly wet; submerged in some blue water, unable to breath, lungs full of wet. Yanked out by the tail and set on his feet, he gasps and chokes, spitting up blue. They’re smearing something on him now, but won’t let him turn his head. It goes across his cheeks down his neck. Is that black paint? White paint too! What on earth are they doing to him! All hands let go and the figures stand back. They’re mumbling again. “What should we do with his horns and scales?” “Don’t forget those hooves.” “More black?” “What about white?” “Paint it red.” Silence. Slowly they nod and murmur in agreement. The paint comes out and it is done.