BY OLIVIA GUNN KOTSISHEVSKAYA

Pulling into the dirt parking lot right off Biddeford’s West Street, only minutes from the shore, there’s an almost eerie peacefulness in the air. A red barn that’s seen better days towers over the lot, while a few horses mosey around the fenced rings, oblivi- ous to my arrival or blatantly ignoring me. I wander up to the gate, hesitant to walk through, because who knows what the rules are around rescued mustangs?

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