How could Gran make me stay in this room and watch it again?

Late that night, as I sat upstairs in my window seat, the wind finally herded the clouds off. Stars appeared, brilliant, sharp-edged, scattered like hard white seeds across the black sky.

Morning came on as clear and blue as ice melt. At the bus stop Muncie swayed around me like an eager puppy.

“It’s going to be nice all day,” she said. “Let’s gather wool this afternoon. My basket is nearly full.”

All summer and early fall, Muncie and I had gathered bits and pieces of pulled wool. Muncie kept the wool in a basket at her house.

“I don’t know, Munce. I promised Gran I’d move the flock of yearlings in the front pasture today.”

“I’ll help,” Muncie offered.

After school I left my backpack in the shed, pulled on my work boots, and let Caleb out.

Coming past the end of the house, I avoided looking at the drawn curtain. I ran to meet Muncie on the dirt road.

Disconnecting the clip feeding power to the fence, I motioned Muncie to join me. Caleb whined at my side, eager to work.

Muncie clumped along on her short legs as she helped me set the fence for the new pasture. She’d watched me set fences a hundred times; she knew how to extend the metal webbing, was good at it. Though half my size, Muncie had double my strength.

As soon as we’d defined the borders of the pasture with the fencing, I let Muncie inside with the sheep. She tried playing follow-the-leader with the closest ewe, her hands reaching for the rump of raw wool, but the sheep kept out of her reach.

They were like big toys to Muncie. I tended them. She played with them. That’s how it was with Muncie. I couldn’t count on her for the serious stuff. But that was okay. I could count on her to be there.

The lambs skittered across the pasture away from her.

Down the hill, Ripley Powers strode along the main road in his camouflage suit, a rifle cradled in his arms like a rigid snake. Tyrus ran ahead.

Ripley kept yelling for Tyrus to heel. His voice carried through the thin air, all the way up where I stood in the pasture.

Deer season. That would keep Ripley and Tyrus out of our hair for a few weeks.

“Ready to move these sheep?” I asked Muncie.

Caleb sat, panting slightly, head cocked to one side, ears alert, waiting for the command. I whistled.

“Get out away, Caleb. Good boy.”

Caleb streaked toward the large flock of yearlings. As he got close, he slowed, crouching low. His dark eyes flashed and the sheep moved uneasily away from him.

Two sheep broke from the flock. Caleb shot after them.

“Come by, Caleb,” I called. “Come by, boy.”

Caleb slunk along, directing the sheep with his eyes, pressing them through the opening in the fence.

He herded the flock into the far corner of the new pasture. “That’ll do,” I said, closing them in.