“I’m going to milk Bounty.” I don’t wait for an answer.

My heart pounds as I reach the faded red doors. I yank them open and am flooded the raw stink of manure. Looks like I have shoveling to do. I pull my shirt over my mouth and walk into the dimness. Bounty greats me from her stall, blinking her big brown eyes and swishing her bristly tail back and forth. I put my hand on her neck. “I’m here,” I murmur. At least I can help someone today. I dig out the milking bucket and stool.

My mind runs as my fingers pull on Bounty’s udders. The warm milk zings into the metal bucket as my thoughts tumble around. If Arn is dead … It’s gut wrenching to think. He can’t be dead, but someone has to face facts. If he’s dead, we’ll all follow. He’s the only one who can barter in town. We might be able to survive for a while on wild game I trap, but what happens if the game dry up? The canned food will last two or three months. The garden barely ekes out enough to make the labor worthwhile in this dry soil. We’d have to eat Bounty and the two pigs. And then there’s medicine. Arn went into town to buy rubbing alcohol, bandages and disinfectant. I can’t watch Ethan die of a little scratch that gets infected.

I tug Bounty’s teat too hard and she shuffles against me, almost knocking me off the stool. I run a hand over her bulging belly in apology. Then I lay my cheek against her warmth. Arn will just have to come home. Any other possibility is unthinkable.

* * *

On the third day after Arn fails to show, my mama cries upstairs. The sound cracks me wide open. I stare at the ceiling and let hot tears trace my cheeks. My family is falling apart. Chores have come to a halt. Ethan straggles around the house and bursts into tears. Auntie Bell rocks on the front porch for hours. Nobody’s eaten much in three days. I milk the cow, feed and water the livestock and then crawl back into bed. I stare at the cracks in the plaster ceiling and think about how to keep my family alive.

I drag myself out of bed, dig my feet into my boots and head to the barn. Bounty moos a greeting as I walk in, but I don’t stop to rub my hand along her flank. I pass several empty stalls until I reach the big expanse Arn uses as his workshop. In the dim light, I examine his projects. The kitchen chair he was mending sits upturned, legs to the sky like a dead spider. A rough spear carved out of a tree branch rests against the wall. Oily car parts lie in pieces on the table. I notice a lumpy object covered with a cloth on the shelf above. Digging through Arn’s things seems wrong, but if he’s dead someone will have to.