Ivy leans back against the wall and looks up at the paper lantern light in the middle of my ceiling. Micah and I colored it with markers when we were young. We made flowers across the middle in a green field, sea creatures in the ocean all around the bottom, and a black sky with yellow stars at the top. My mom had a fit when she saw what we’d done, but when we turned the light on inside the lantern, it looked really pretty and she forgave us.

“Do you miss being a kid?” Ivy asks.

I look at the chipmunk Micah drew in the green field next to the brown-and-white rabbit I drew. They are sitting under a giant purple flower. I think it’s supposed to be a lilac, which doesn’t make sense as far as what grows in a field, but of course makes sense given our engagement under the lilac bushes all those years ago.

“Yeah,” I say. “All the time.”

Ewe and Me stare longingly at their gate the next morning, as if they are both daydreaming about life on the outside. I imagine them escaping and trotting down the road, stopping at each field they come across to graze and decide if this is the place where they should stay awhile. Then I start to imagine what would happen if all the animals stepped outside their pens. Would they want to leave? Or would they just stand and look bewildered? Maybe they’d wander from pen to pen to see if they preferred someplace else. The way they stare at one another all day, I’m sure they’re sizing up the other areas, wondering if they have it better or worse than their neighbors. Maybe they’re wondering if the grass really is greener on the other side of the fence. Mr. Townsend says they need to get to know one another before they can all share the same pasture with Ben and Gil. Sometimes I wonder where he gets his information and whether it’s accurate. But I hope I get to see them when they all get to run free together.

I lug Lucy’s feed over to her pen and set it down just outside the fence by the hook. I watch her carefully before attempting to climb up and latch the bucket on her side. She’s sunning herself in a muddy area at the far corner of her pen. A tiny breeze drifts over her and sends her stench directly into my face. It’s as if she made it happen, and I bet she smiles inside when the smell hits me. It sure is hard to love the hell out of this pig.

“Morning, Lucy,” I say.