The odds of him being able to hold on while she carries him seem a bit higher than the odds of them outrunning all the dead folk if they're limited to a two-legger's top speed, even a gangly two-legger's. Well, let's give it a try, she decides, growing into horse shape and giving her mane a settling shake. There's a toppled newspaper bin that could do for a step-up, so she stands beside it and turns to look at the Balladeer.

Climb on, she says. You can hold onto my mane at the bottom without hurting me, and it'll help keep you from falling. Not as much as having a horse who actively wants to keep him aboard will, but that probably goes without saying.