Neverhome - Pg 63

   "My horse is dreaming about a bullet we both of us took."
   I guessed the whiskey had worked up the swirl of war in him and when that happened you couldn't know what a man would say. I knew a man in the days after Antietam would drink whiskey then pull out a knife and start to working its point into himself. And not an hour before I had worn a dress and shot two men and killed another with a clay jug to the head. A man telling me what his horse was dreaming seemed small next to that.