“134… 135… 136. It’s here,” whispered Apple Bloom, whirling to face Sweetie Belle who was following behind, holding a bouquet made up of daffodils and lilies. Both fillies halted, and Apple Bloom knocked softly at the door. She got no audible response, so she pushed gently on the door until it was slightly ajar, and peeked inside.

On the other side of the white room, behind the big bed, Rainbow Dash was sitting on a stool, lost in thought. Apple Bloom waved with her hoof through the chink; Dash seemed to come alive; she reached one hoof over her mouth, as to require silence, stood up and tiptoed out. She joined the two fillies in the corridor and cautiously closed the door behind her.

“How is she?” asked Sweetie Belle.

“No change. Deep coma,” answered Rainbow Dash somberly.

“Will she recover?” wondered Apple Bloom.

“Even the best specialists don’t have a clue,” Rainbow Dash explained. She lowered her head. “She might never wake up, or remain paralyzed forever, or what else…” She faltered.

“It was no accident, was it?” inquired Sweetie Belle. But Rainbow Dash did not answer and there was a long hush. A nurse ambled by, pushing an empty wheelchair.

“We didn’t know what to bring so we ended up with this bouquet,” said Sweetie Belle after a while. She hoofed the flowers to Rainbow Dash, whose face brightened with a hint of a smile.

“Thank you girls,” she said. “I’m sure she would be happy to see them. Now it’s time for me to return in the room. You can come back tomorrow after school, if you want.”

“We definitely will,” replied the fillies. “Goodbye, Rainbow.”

Rainbow Dash hugged each of them. They were trying to remain as dignified as they could, but as soon as they turned around and set out for the exit, big tears streamed freely from their eyes.

Rainbow Dash watched them recede, then re-entered into the room as discreetly as possible. She carefully slipped the flowers in the empty vase on the bedside table, poured a bit of water from the adjacent jug, then sat again on the stool with a sigh and looked at the bed.

Lying under the sheet, the young filly’s shape had not moved a muscle for days. Would she ever stir, walk, gambol again, it was beyond her abilities to guess. The skull had been badly fractured in the fall and the brain had been seriously damaged, the doctors had said, as if apologizing for their powerlessness. She rose her head and gazed thoughtfully at the bouquet. Next to the vase, enclosed in a little wooden frame, was the photograph of a smiling, cheering, lovely foal.

The portrait of Scootaloo.