“You have enough shit in your life already,” Jo had said on the phone. “I mean, come on. Poopy diapers and dirty straw?” I had laughed, because she wanted me to. But it was true.

I crumbled my cookie. “And now we know that Mom will be in rehab . . . Even after she gets out, she won’t be able to work like she used to. Maybe not for months. We really need to hire somebody to handle the farm chores.”

Hannah’s eyes were dark and kind. Troubled. “Meg . . . Did you talk to your parents about this?”

I shook my head. Between the pain—and the pain meds—my mother was in no condition to make decisions about the farm. My father had never really asked for my help, or volunteered any. He spent his days counseling veterans in a rented storefront in a run-down part of town, an old insurance office that held a desk, some chairs, a computer, and a coffeepot. At night, he ran a twelve-step program in the church basement, down the stairs from the twins’ classroom, or visited the hospital, sitting with Momma, dropping in on the wounded warriors in rehab.

It was as if he expected life to simply go on revolving around him. Which, of course, it did.

“Honey . . .” Hannah studied her mug, which was a cheerful yellow with Think like a proton . . . Stay positive! printed on one side. Science teacher humor, I guess. “Your folks are good people. Abby and I have been friends a long time. But you’re talking about, what, three months?” I nodded. “I can’t help you. I won’t be here. I’m visiting James over the holidays.” Her son in California.

“I’m not asking you to do it,” I assured her. It was one thing to work in the cheese room, cutting curd and draining whey. But Hannah was past retirement age, too old to be hauling hay and mucking out stalls. “I figured you might know someone who could use the work, that’s all. It won’t pay a lot, but . . .”

“Meg.” Hannah met my gaze, her eyes regretful. “Your mother doesn’t have the money to pay anybody right now.”

My jaw unhinged. But . . . Okay. Granted, I hadn’t worked at the bank in a while. But I understood the problems farmers faced with cash flow. Market prices and milk production went up and down. Feed costs and vet bills were constant. Any large, unexpected expense could plunge you into the red.

For some reason, my heart was racing. “Are you saying . . . Miss Hannah, does Momma owe you money?”

“I told Abby not to worry about it. You’re getting into the lean season now. Pretty soon those goats dry up. So do customers. Abby always counted on her holiday sales at the farmers’ market to see her through till spring.”

But my mother hadn’t been at the farmers’ market, I remembered. She’d been in the hospital.