“The Harrises can’t pay their rent,” I told Gran.

“I know.”

“What do we do about them?”

“What do you think, girl? You think you just throw people out when hard times hit? They can stay as long as they need to. We’ve got some money put by. We’ll help the Harrises however we can. Same with the Edwards.”

The Edwards, a retired couple, rented a house from us too.

“Are our sheep going to be all right?”

“Far as I can tell, Nyle,” Gran said. “We’ll have everything tested before we sell it, the fleeces, this cheese, the milk, the meat. The wood from the woodlots too. I won’t sell anything tainted. But I think our luck held. We still have clean air, clean dirt, clean water. Any release of radiation comes this way, though, the farm could die.”

“Like with Aunt May and Uncle Lemmy?”

Gran nodded. Her broad back turned half away.

“Do you like sheep farming, Gran?” I asked.

Gran examined a moldy wheel of cheese. “Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t.”

“What do you like most about it?”

I watched Gran’s slow, steady progress down the row. She wiped each wheel of cheese with a cloth soaked in salt brine. She stayed silent so long, I thought she’d forgotten my question.

“That’s a hard one, Nyle,” she said at last.

“I know.” I waited for her to think awhile longer.

“I like the routine,” she said.

“I do too.”

“And I like being with the sheep.”

I nodded. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and my upper lip in the warm, tangy cellar.

“To be honest, Nyle, there’s not much I don’t like. Except maybe hoof rot.”

“I like the quiet. Inside quiet, outside quiet, you know?”

Gran nodded.

“And I like spring,” I said. “When the grass greens up and the lambs come.”

“I like that too,” said Gran.

“And I like the way the sheep are always there. I like how they never leave.”

In the ripening cellar I heard the report of rifle fire. Hunters.

“They’re too close,” Gran said.

“Ripley, I bet. Probably jacking deer out his bedroom window.” I hadn’t seen Ripley in some time. He took off school during the three weeks of deer season.

When we finished with the cheese, we changed out of our aprons and boots and climbed up through the bulkhead. Another shot met our ears as the cold air slapped our faces.

Blinded by the brilliant snow, we couldn’t see a soul. But from the sound of it, the shot had come from down the hill across the road, behind the flat pasture. Sounded like someone back in the far woodlot. Gran posted only the woods near the sheep and the houses. Normally she went out herself during rifle season and brought home a deer.

“How come you didn’t go this year?” I asked, standing outside in the crisp afternoon.

“We’re awful close to the contamination zone,” Gran said. “What if those deer are grazing on radioactive brush? We can monitor radiation in the feed we give our sheep. But we don’t know where or what the deer are browsing. I wouldn’t eat that venison.”