One late post recalled a winter when Tess had little money and no plans. She loaded the disassembled bull into her car and drove to a shelter’s holiday event. The riders were wary at first: men with hollow eyes, teenagers wrapped in too-big coats, exhausted volunteers. Gradually, the motion coaxed fragile smiles. A veteran who had seen worse in other countries gamely tried to ride and guffawed when he didn’t fall off. Someone cheered him on, the room full of strangers briefly knitted into a single, absurdly hopeful audience. Tess wrote that night with quiet wonder: the bull did not fix everything, but for one hour it moved people off their edges and back into each other’s orbit.
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