By Amy Friedman

I ran to the post, ready to throw the horse’s reins over.
“Not there – that’s the whipping post,” Bronson said.
I slanted him a look. “Like the Allman Brothers song?”
His eyes stayed serious. “I told you we don’t have jails on this world.”
“And?”
“Commit an infraction, and you are tied here and horsewhipped.”
“That’s barbaric,” I said.
“That’s this world,” he replied. “You live here now.”
I was quiet for a moment.
“Is tying a horse to the whipping post an infraction?”
He eyed the post, and then turned to me.
“No, but it might get your horse whipped.”