As we drive into Knoxville, the city strikes me as surprisingly pretty. The streets are tree-lined and shady, and the high rises are built along the banks of a river, similar to Chicago.

It’s busier than I expected. The shops and cafes are crowded with people, and the downtown streets look prosperous. There’s no empty or boarded-up shops, and only one small brick building for sale.

There’s a pleasant air of friendliness—people smiling or nodding as they pass us on the sidewalk. I don’t know if it’s a southern thing, or if Raylan’s grin just makes people want to smile back at us.

Raylan waits while I step inside a CVS to buy what I need, then we go next door to something called the CAL Ranch Store. Bo wanders off to the firearms section, while Grady and Raylan get the mats. I’m distracted by several incubators full of eggs, in which dozens of chicks are currently hatching. The chicks look wet and bedraggled, and not nearly as cute as the fluffy yellow ones in the next box over, who have apparently been hopping around at least a day or two. Still, I’m fascinated by the slow, painstaking process by which they break out of their shell prison.

I’m still there when Raylan returns from hauling mats out to the truck.

“You want some chickens?” he asks me with a grin.

“No,” I say. “I’m just amazed they can do this, when they look so weak and floppy.”

“They’re tougher than they look.”

He scoops one of the clean, fluffy chicks out of its glass box and places it in my hands. I’m amazed how light it is, and how soft. I can feel its heartbeat against my thumb, ten times faster than my own. The chick nuzzles down in my palm, enjoying the warmth.

All our purchases complete, we head over to the French Market Creperie as Raylan promised. Raylan and I split a banana/Nutella/walnut crepe, and I have to admit, it’s pretty damn good. Not far off the crepes I ate in France.

We head back to the ranch, the heavy rubber horse stall mats weighing down the bed of the truck.

While Raylan and Grady are unloading, I head back into the house. I want to go back over those purchase agreements again, so I can puzzle out the discrepancy one more time.

Opening Bo’s laptop, I notice the deep quiet of the kitchen, punctuated only by a few creaks from the older parts of the house, and the odd distant animal sound from outdoors.

It feels strange to be alone.

I’m surprised how quickly I’m getting used to the noise and bustle of the ranch, and the near-constant companionship of Raylan himself. Twice I find myself looking up from the work, about to make a comment to him, only to realize that he’s out in the stables, not in the kitchen with me.

I shake my head at my idiocy and try to lose myself in the numbers like I usually do.