The field had not been plowed in a year, perhaps longer, he judged. It was weed-covered, too rocky for good farming, eroded in the middle below the washed-through break of a terrace. On the ground, there were curled, decaying cobs where left-behind nubbins of corn had been gnawed down by rats and squirrels, or pecked away by crows. He guessed it was the last crop that Eleanor Cunningham’s husband had planted and harvested before taking his life.

He left the field and walked the road toward the house, slowing as he neared it. Through the windbreak of trees, he could see the car and beyond the car, Eleanor Cunningham. She was near the barn, going to a place in the pasture he could not see, and then retreating from it, going back, retreating. From where he watched, Noah believed something had happened that perplexed her, or frightened her.

He stepped from the road and walked through the trees toward her, approaching cautiously. He saw her look up in recognition.

“You got some trouble?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” Eleanor said in a voice that wanted to be brave, but trembled. “One of my cows is down. Dying, I’d guess.”

“I’ll take a look,” he told her.

“Thank you,” Eleanor replied. She paused. “You’re that fisherman.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “Noah Locke.”

“You were at the store.”

“Yes ma’am,” Noah replied. He glanced toward the pasture, said again, “I’ll take a look.”

“Thank you,” Eleanor repeated.

The cow was dying. She lay on her side, her head on the ground, legs folded over legs. Her eyes were dry, making a glazed stare, as though seeing some place far away, too far to reach. Her breathing was labored, a foam holding in her nose.

Noah squatted close to the head of the cow, leaning his elbow on his knee. The cow’s eyes floated to him and he said to the cow in words that did not carry, “I know.” Then he stood and walked back to Eleanor. “You got a rifle?” he asked.

Eleanor answered with a nod.

“If you get it, I’ll take care of things,” Noah said.

Again, Eleanor nodded. “It needs to be shot?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I can’t just leave it lying out there,” Eleanor said.

“No ma’am,” Noah replied. “If you want some meat from it, I can butcher it for you, but if you just want it taken off and buried, I can do that.”

“Meat?” Eleanor said. She shook her head. “No, I don’t want any. She’s too old.”

“Yes ma’am,” Noah said. “I’d say so, too.” He paused. Then: “If you got some trace chain and a shovel, I can drag it off with your car and bury it.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t worry about it,” Noah told her. “I’ll find a good spot.”

“She’s too big to bury.”

“I’ve done it before,” Noah said. “It’ll take a little time, but I can do it.”

Eleanor did not watch the mercy killing of the cow. She sat at the kitchen table in her house, waiting, her body tensed for the shot.