A Speck of Rust in the Machine (open)

[Ena Mena Mina Mo]

Hadena's pulse pounded like streambed stones, worn marble-smooth through centuries of the water's cold caress, through her veins. She could feel it knocking at her throat and inside her wrists, even in two small points in the very center of her chest. The strong, slim, white pine staff bounced between her shoulder blades where she'd slung it for safekeeping, and the long rope in her right hand flapped against her wrist and right thigh as she sprinted. The fox that had decided to go after one of the kids was very determined to catch his prey, but Hadena was just as determined not to lose the goat. She would be charged for its loss, despite the fact that she couldn't, realistically, be responsible for seventy of the rambunctious creatures without more than a stick and a pair of dogs to help her. But whoever made the rules had obviously never been on the receiving end of them. Pity.

Still running, Hadena uncoiled three-quarters of the rope, dodging almost as quickly as the fox and kid did as they chased and evaded, and bundled it loosely in her left hand. In her right, she adjusted the knot and loops to the size she wanted and raised her right arm, twirling it and rolling her hand on the joint once. With a single, harsh flick, she hurled the rope in the direction she predicted the goat would next go, and the delay between the rope's flight and the kid's, the loop settled almost peacefully around the fox's thick-furred throat. Hadena gave a sharp yank and the creature flipped onto its back, wheezing and clawing at the frozen ground. The kid hurried back to the herd, which she had left in her guard dogs' care, and Hadena hurried up behind the fox, pine staff now firmly in hand. With one, solid strike to the head, the fox lay limply on the ground, a thin trickle of blood already beginning to freeze in the thin fur beneath one tall, pointed ear.

"Sorry about that," Hadena sighed as she knelt beside the fallen creature, its fur like a blot of rust on the otherwise-impeccable quilt of snow of the expansive landscape. Foxes weren't common here in the grazing grounds; the fence kept most of them out. But this one was smaller than most, one of the reasons she felt that small sprig of remorse in her chest for killing it. The animal was just trying to survive. Just like all of them.

Unfortunately, for Hadena to survive, the goats had to survive. And for the goats to survive, the desperate fox had to die. At least it wouldn't have to run anymore now that it was dead. Not if it didn't want to.

Slinging the pine bough back across her back, Hadena lifted the limp creature as she would one of her goats, not swinging it by the sleek tail like a prize. Bringing it back to where the goats were--slightly more warily now--milling about as they pawed for grass underneath clumps of ice, she set it aside and began to dig a shallow hole in the sharp snow to bury it until she could take it home and skin it.

[Jack Lexington]

"Go, get moving-now!" Behind me my mother waved for me to finally step down from our doorstep before she drew the heavy wooden door closed to keep the warmth in our small house.
With a sigh I button up my thick woolen jacket and pull my hat a little deeper. The day is sunny but a cold wind is blowing. My hands in my gloves curl around the make shift stick I've been using as a crutch whenever I work up the will to get on my feet.

Finally I take the two steps down to the street and start tridging through the foot of snow that has fallen lately. Admittedly it feels nice to breath fresh air for a change but when I notice our neighbours shooting glances at me I know exactly that they're talking about me...maybe that I've been gone for so long or that I was in the detention center. My escapade haven't done my family's reputation any good.

So I decide to simply walk, walk through the pain in my legs, through the shame in my mind and through the damn snow.

About an hour later I'm far enough away from the village to sit down and let my mind wander and while I'm sitting on a few logs that I've cleaned off my eyes fall on a few creatures running in the distance. I squint my green eyes against the sun, that's glistening on the snow. It's a girl chasing a fox and a lamb. She's actually pretty good for entertainment and finally manages to rope the fox. The young woman doesn't fail to impress me and when she knocks out the fox I find myself cheering.
"Incredible."

[Ena Mena Mina Mo]

The sound of someone else whooping and clapping startles me so badly I jump and fall on my rear in the snow, dropping the fox beside the small hole I'd started. Sitting on a fallen log not terribly far away is a person--a man--whom I only vaguely recognize. Then again I don't pay much attention to other people. I've found they often aren't worth it. "Incredible." I sit back up onto my knees slowly, hesitant. I'm not typically a nice person to people I don't know, so I'm kind of surprised to be complimented by someone I do not know. "Um, thanks," I say. Never one for subtlety, or respecting anyone's privacy but my own, I direct my chin toward the sturdy stick he's brought with him. Mine has an obvious purpose, which he's seen in action now, but I don't know what his is for and I'm wondering if he's going to fight with me over one of the goats. Starving creatures--human or not--are all desperate. It wouldn't be the first time, but the fine on losing one of the little animals is steep. "What's the stick for?" I'm really not in the mood for a fight today. Not only did I have to kill the fox, but I don't actually know how to skin it myself--I'll have to pay the butcher to dress it for me, since this is pretty much the only way I can afford to eat meat.

I resume resolutely digging the hole for the limp fox. The cold will help prevent the blood from seeping into the meat and spoiling it.

{Short, sorry.}

[Jack Lexington]

I was so enthusiastic about cheering for the blonde girl that it was hard to miss me I guess. I have her attention now and she's asking about my stick. At first I think she's trying to make fun of me, which I really don't appreciate, but then I realize she might be worried. It might be my unshaved, uncombed appearance that is making her suspicious.
"Don't worry. I won't club you over the head like you did to that fox."
Offering her a smile I stand up and come closer. It should be obvious what the stick is for now as I still can't walk properly on my own two feet because the right one lacks it's feeling and is still very sore. My feeling tells me I don't have to explain the sticks purpose any further.

As I come closer I can see her face a little better. It's actually quite pretty...brown eyes, round cheeks, probably a little older than me.
Her animals are moving away not knowing whether I am a thread or not.

Observing what she's doing I draw my jacket a little closer to protect my skinny frame from the cold wind and comment. "Good catch. But skinning the bony bastard is going to be some work."
Any distraction is welcome and this seems to be a perfect opportunity to get my mind of what has happened lately.

[Ena Mena Mina Mo]

He doesn't seem offended by my bluntness, which is nice. People with weak skins are irritating. If they want to survive, too, they better learn to adapt. "Don't worry. I won't club you over the head like you did to that fox." I grimace. I do feel bad about the fox. Whether or not he means that as a reproach, I don't take it as one. No use getting all righteous now. There's no point.

The guy stands, and I can see now that the staff is used as a sort of crutch. Something about one of his legs is off; it doesn't move properly, with the right precision or decision. I wonder what he went and did to himself to mess his leg up, but until I find a quasi-polite way to ask that question, I keep it to myself. There's only so much inquisition a guy can take, anyway--they seem to find something about it emasculating, and then they get all snippy with me. Well, fine then. Be sensitive.

Frost and Alder--the two herding dogs I and my parents trained ourselves--circuit around the milling goats and keep them from scattering as he approaches, also keeping a single eye each on him and me. The goats don't seem to mind strange people when they're penned up; surely they think the pen is for their protection rather than their containment. They climb up on the fences rungs and nose at the stranger until he or she very suddenly becomes boring, and they wander off to ignore them. I finish burying the fox quickly and stand, glad that for once I've remembered my gloves, if only because they happened to be in my pockets this morning. "Yeah, I never learned, so I'll probably pay the butcher to do it for me." The goats, emboldened by the fact that I'm talking politely to this stranger, become ambling back, trying desperately to look bored, but obviously they're inquisitive. Frost keeps an eye on the goats, settling his rump comfortably in the rough snow, and Alder strides over to me, hackles half-raised in warning. I whistle to her, a tune she and I taught each other years ago, because the sound carries over this terrain much better than my voice does. She settles, still watchful but no longer unwelcoming. "Long way to wander when walking isn't coming easy," I commented blandly.

[Jack Lexington]

With a frown I mutter. "Yeah, I had to get out. Cabin fever."
That low muttering tone has become my trade mark ever since <i was a teenager. Maybe because my voice suddenly droppedn an octave.

For a moment I watch the interaction between the animals and their owner. They seem to have a silent understanding which tells me that they spend a lot of time with each other and are familiar with every move and sound. The dogs listen really well. If only Storm was this obiedient but because I've been gone during his puppy weeks and my mother had to take care of my father 24/7 Storm is still as unruly as he was when I found him.

The fox is now covered with snow, that has a slightly pink colour. Any scavenger will easily find it here. Even the dogs might try and get a bite of it if they're hungry enough.
I motion for the mount with my free, hand. "If you leave it here it will be gone by tomorrow. There are a lot of hungry creatures out in the fields and woods. But you probably know that."
I warn her. Hopefully I'm not going to offend her with my advice.

The girl doesn't look very wealthy and the butcher is going to cost half the fox's worth.
"I'm not great at skinning but I've done it before. My grandpa used to set snares. I don't have anything to do right now...if you want a hand. Do you have a sharp knife?"

I hobble closer until we're face to face with only one of the dogs between us.
Silently my hand reaches down and lets him sniff my scent. There's probably a hint of Storm on me, which he finds interesting.

[Ena Mena Mina Mo]

I wish I could get cabin fever. For the most part, I love my job. I get to spend nearly every hour of every day outside with a squall of animals that take entertainment out of untying my shoelaces when they catch me unawares. They'll keep you busy and keep you healthy, these goats. Or they'll starve you because there's no way you'll make up for all the energy you lose chasing them. I won't say that hasn't almost happened before. At least I get rations for the hounds, because I'd never be able to feed them out of my own shallow, hole-filled pockets.

He mentions the cost of paying the butcher to do what I ought to know how to do myself, and I purse my lips again. He's right, but I hate to admit that anyone but myself is ever correct. I can apologize like a repentant fiend, but I don't like acknowledging the intelligence of others, I suppose. With the toe of my boot, I nudge a chunk of snow over a spot where the fox's blood-spattered ear must be leaking. The one advantage, I suppose, of being armed only with a rope and stick is that the hide of whatever you have to kill is rarely damaged. Unless you do something wrong and rip all the fur out with your rope. But I've worked with these tools since I was ten, and twelve years is a long time to get perfect on something that could prevent you from being kicked out of your home with fines. Everything's about the money here, isn't it?

When the young man offers to skin the fox for me, my foot freezes where it's about to nudge even more snow over the hole I laid the fox in. "I don't have anything to do right now... Do you have a sharp knife?" I hesitate. The money I'd save from not having to pay the butcher could pay for half a week of food. Some bread and some dried corn kernels, at least. But the part of me--the larger part, too, unfortunately--that doesn't even want to get along nicely with other people warns me not to give up my knife. Granted, there's not much he could do with a little pocket knife that I couldn't counter with a six-foot stick.

In the end, it's Sentry's voice that gets me to make a decision, and probably the smarter one, too. He was always the one telling me to get over myself and to stop treating other people like they were all escaped criminals. So I bend and pinch a small, finger-length blade out of the top of my boot. It unfolds from a five-inch wooden handle and will even lock in place so it doesn't fold back in and chop your finger off. My father's friend made this at his request and gave it to me, but since even herders aren't really supposed to cavort about with knives, I don't know how many people have one or know how to open and close it. It's simple, but I had trouble with it when my father first tossed it to me. I twist the metal band at one end of the handle and use my teeth to tug the blade out of the wood, since I'm not taking my gloves off to use my fingernail. Then I twist the metal band again so the blade can't close. I hand it to him handle first. " My name is Hadena. I haven't sharpened it in a while," I say somewhat apologetically, "But I haven't used it in a while, either." There isn't much use for it out here, really. I'll do the occasional, bored whittling or cut something interesting down from a tree or use the blade to slice off a strip of bandaging if one of the goats or dogs manages to cut themselves. Mostly it just makes me feel better to have the knife around.

I'm trying to be nice now, since I usually make up my mind about people fairly quickly, but I still take a step back when he accepts the knife and whistle again, a different pattern, and this time to Frost specifically. He raises his head from his paws and I point out behind him, where one of the smaller goats has crept past his watchful guard by sneaking through some underbrush. Frost takes off to herd the wayward animal back around, and I send Alder to help him.

"You have a dog?" I ask him then, having noticed the unusual interest Alder had shown in his extended fist.

[Jack Lexington]

Carefully I watch how she unfolds the blade and locks it in place. The small piece of metal is not exactly what I had in mind when I said knife but it'll have to do.
When I accept it I first run my thumb across the blade. It's not very sharp but surely still able to cut.

Then I wait for her to dig the fox out again but she has a watchful eye on her herd and asks me about my dog.
With a small smile, that fades quickly I reply. "Yeah, he's not as well trained as your though. Storm. I wasn't around while he was still a puppy and now he just does whatever he wants."
Politely I hold out my hand. "I'm Jack."

The wind picks up again blowing some loose snow past us. "We should probably find a tree or something to hang the fox on...maybe over there where I was sitting."
The pile of logs is sheltered by a group of maple trees, which don't have a single leave left on them.

When the fox is dug up I make my way over to the logs, lean my stick against the side of the pile and place the limp biest on top of it.
Silently I hope she's not one those girls, who will run and scream at the sight of an animal being skinned. After all she needs the meat and maybe the fur.
I take off my woolen gloves, tie a sting from my pocket to the tree and hang the fox up my his hind leg before I start slicing into his fur, which proofs quite hard with this small knife.

Out of the corner of my eye I watch her wondering whether she's always out here by herself. "Is this your herd, Hadena?"

[Ena Mena Mina Mo]

Jack is a good name. Certainly one of the few that's hard to make fun of. And he doesn't have an idiot's handshake, which makes me distrust him just a little bit less. Goodness, I need to socialize more often. I'm turning into a hermit. "Yeah, he's not as well trained as your though. Storm."

I nodded toward my own dogs. "Frost, the boy," and the one with the white streaks on his back. "And Alder, the lass," With a darker, more solid pelt. Named for a moth, just like me. "My parents helped me train them, and they're better with animals than I'll ever be; I got lucky." I wondered if I should offer to see if my parents could do anything to better humble his unruly hound, since I hate every feeling beholden to anyone, but I always feel awkward making offers, no matter what they're for. Usually I just do and say what I want without asking first. Asking makes me feel like a child.

Jack moves over to the scattering of maples as the wind starts to rush over the snow again. I hate wind. And I feel bad for leaving him to retrieve the fox; I should have done that. But oh well. I whistle to the dogs so they can take their time coaxing the herd into following us. The stand of trees isn't far away, but it's less a distance I have to run if another disturbance occurs. I feel another rush of regret when he dangles the rust-colored fox up by its hind paws, like a wrongfully hanged man. I could never be a butcher--killing things, no matter the reason, is a sorrowful thing. I suppose there are a few things that could warrant a grimly pleased killing, but those deaths are all human, and there are only so many things a human can do to deserve such an early end.

I start when he uses my name, having grown distracted by my own thoughts. It looks like he's used to either a longer or a sharper knife, but it's all I've got. Sticks and ropes are much less messy when it comes to dealing with things you don't want around. They provide a much quicker solution for someone like me. "Hm? Oh, yes. It belonged to my parents at first, but they've gotten tired, so it's been mine for a few years now. Seventy in all." I pause, then decide to try my hand at casual conversation, with which I have never been skilled. "What do you do? Or did you do?" I don't know if whatever he's done to his leg prevents him from returning to a previous job. But no one can afford not to work for long. They'll starve. They all do.

[Jack Lexington]

By the way she talks about her dogs I can tell she feels like they are her companions rather than just working dogs. I wish her parents would take care of Storms misbehavior.

Judging by the look on her face she's not a big fan of seeing animals bleed. Neither am I but I know how bad hunger can feel so there's a good reason to skin this fox. It has nothing to do with cruelty or abusing it. It simply serves the purpose of feeding her and her family, which she talks so fondly of.
"You're close to your family, aren't you?" I mutter before she asks the next question, which makes me stop my actions for a moment.
I guess it was supposed to be a conversation opener but she's hit bulls eye in a bad sense. I grab some snow and wipe the blood off my hands with it, then drop it, which buys me some time to think about an answer.
She's asking the one thing that's been on my mind 24/7 and that I've been trying to escape.
Finally I look up in her friendly face, mine bitter even though I try to keep a grip on my emotions.
"You have a hand for bad questions."

Once again I wipe my hands, then let her know.
"I used to be a wrangler until about 5 months ago. Ever since I can remember my family has worked with horses. I do it all...feeding, breaking, training, driving them, roping, you name it. It's all I know and have ever learned."

Here I am talking to this stranger. After burrying all my thoughts and feelings for so long. I didn't go and meet my friends when I came back to evade questions, didn't tell my parents much either. The only person I would talk to was Tallulah. She will listen to all my stupid, sad babbling but other than that I've just been moping and now, all of a sudden, everything is breaking out of me.

My throat is all choked up when I continue but don't meet her gaze.
"I can't tell you what exactly happened, just that somebody tried to kill me by hacking off my legs. He partly succeeded...broke one and took his axe to the other."

Now I have to wait and take a deep breath. I'm too caught up in my memories, the terrible feeling of being lost to this person's mercy, a person, who simply didn't show any mercy. The feeling of loosing everything, fighting for my life, all the blood. Fear.

My gaze falls on the half skinned fox and the blood dripping from it. With shaking fingers I let the knife sink to my side.

"I was lucky enough to survive but now I'm useless and my family is starving."
My eyes well up because I let my emotions get the better of me, out here, with a total stranger. Quickly I turn my back to her and push back the tears before they can fall.
It takes me a moment until I regain my composure.
Then I turn back and apologize. "Sorry...I haven't really talked about it. Sorry about that."

[Ena Mena Mina Mo]

"Close? Yes." But we were more so when I was a kid. I think. Everything sort of fell apart when Acmon died of sickness. Just like I'd been terrified that it would, everything changed after that. Sentinel kissed me, I ran off, refused to see him until he disappeared to the city. We didn't see or speak to each other for six years until his mom's funeral just a couple days ago. And, well, I still didn't know where we stood with each other. He'd said there was nothing left for him here, that he was going back to the city within the week. His dad had vanished years ago, I had vanished even before that, his mom was dead and his farm was on the bring of repossession. He was right; there was nothing left for him. But I'd finally come back, hadn't I? Wasn't there any way I could make him stay? He was the only one I'd ever really talked to.

"You have a hand for bad questions." My entire body stiffened. Oh, lord not this. Don't let me do this to another person. This was exactly why I never socialized. The hand with the dull blade in it sunk to the side, and I wondered briefly if I should take it from him so it wouldn't fall and be lost in the snow. But the snow wasn't all that deep here, what with the wind having drifted it elsewhere, and I was afraid to move. What had I done?

His voice was broken, miserable, as he spoke of what had befallen him. Someone had tried to kill him and had maimed him instead? Why? If he could live but not work, he would have been luckier to have died. But grudges don't do any good to those of us on the short end of the stick; we all work harder than the meager coins we make can ever do to replace what we give. What could this harmless, kind-seeming man have ever done to warrant what sounded like a vicious attempt to desecrate his entire existence?

I really needed to just stop talking to people. At all. All I ever did was ruin things that might have been good if I'd just had the sense and decency never to touch them in the first place.

"....And my family is starving." He turns for just a moment, angling his face away, and even I know why.

I'm no good at making offers or suggestions, so I just say it outright. "Well the fox is yours then. I didn't kill it because I needed it to eat--I just needed it gone. Besides, you're the one making it useful." I look away too, up at the gray, cloud-quilted sky. I'm no good with feelings. If anyone ever asks me about mine, they're more likely to get a scowl if they're lucky, or the threat of violence if they're not. "And if you bring your dog to my dad, he can probably straighten him out. May not be quick, though." Good training takes time. These two weren't up to my father's standards of 'perfect' until they were going on three. They're seven now.

Feeling inadequate, like I'm not doing enough and I never will be, I whistle to Alder. She's the friendlier of the two hounds. I give her a nudge toward Jack, knowing she thinks it's for a petting, and guessing that if he's anything like me when it comes to animals, just having her around will do more help than I ever could. Like I said: inadequate. The only things that come naturally to me are pushing people around and finding the most efficient way to insult someone.

[Jack Lexington]

The snoft snout of the dog touches my hand. Without even noticing it I run my fingers through the soft fur and caress her ears. Slowly that motion and the dogs presence calms me down.

It takes me a moment to get a grip on myself again and when I snap out of it I realize that I made the shepperd very uncomfortable as she is offering me food and help but averting her gaze. I'm pretty good at reading people and this girl is pretty easy to ready anyway.
My first instinct is to turn down her offers but the fact that my parents had to get by without my help for 5 months and dad is bed bound makes me accept it. "Are you sure? This would make one or two decent meals. Why don't we split it. I'd actually prefer that."
My eyes fall back on the blood in the snow that has been dripping down, which almost takes me back into the woods where the fight with those careers has happened. This time, however, I manage to not let my feelings get the better of me. Instead I grab the animal by one leg and finish pulling the skin off, which I place on one log. Then I try my best to cut the meat into two even pieces, which is a mess with that old pocket knife but eventually I succeed.
"Do you have a bag for the fox?"

I'm glad I'm done with this ugly task and clean my hands again.
Looking back at the girl I give her a small smile. "About Storm. I'd appreciate it if your dad could give me some pointers. I don't have any money to pay...just a lot of time at my hands now. Maybe I can do something useful and train him myself. Can't be that much different from horses."

I fold her knife and hold it out to her.
The sky is getting a darker shade of grey, which tells me that there might be a storm heading towards us.

[Ena Mena Mina Mo]

Split it? "Sure," I say, not wanting to offend him by implicating that he's incapable of something. He is, in a way, but I have no right to draw attention to that fact, even if I think he might need the whole thing. "My dad won't mind having something to do in the evening," I assure him. "But if you can find any spiceweed while you're out and about, it's cheaper than tobacco to smoke." He and I both like the spiceweed, or anything similar that we can find, to be honest. He always smoked a pipe in the evenings after dinner, so it was hard not to grow fond of the scent and taste of the peaty, slightly cinnamon-like flavor.

I remember that he's asked me about a bag so I dig in the pocket of my pants and fish out a canvas bag that will fit the fox, but only because the animal was kind of small and skinny to begin with. I toss it to him and he hands me the blade, which I bend to shove back into my boot. It's a line of frost against my ankle where the woolen sock has fallen down, so I fall on my rear--intentionally this time--to yank the sock back up around my calf and keep it from bagging under my foot like it always wants to.

"How long have you had him?" I wonder. "The dog, Storm." I hate making conversation. I feel like I'm trying to drag a toothpick from one end of a rope to the other when I try to be sociable.

{Low muse today, sorry.}

[Jack Lexington]

I watch her fall on her butt to pull up her sock. The sight makes me smile because it looks pretty awkward and she's so 'manly'. What other woman would do that? It makes me like her actually.

"I've had Storm for maybe 8 months. That's actually a much better story." I hestitate wondering whether she wants to hear it but go ahead anyway because I'm very fond of Storm and find it a little amusing how I got him.
"There was that bad storm last fall when the school had to be evacuated...remember that?" I'm assuming she's still in school because she doesn't look all that old and most of us graduate somewhere between 17 and 19 nowadays.
"I was in the school that afternoon, detention. Me and the other girl, I actually forgot her name, had to escape through a broken window that a few branches hit and then I spotted a tiny helpless puppy who was about to be blown away by the storm. So I went out there and grabbed him. Mind you, when I reached for him a tree came crashing down on my arm and broke it...come to think about it...I haven't been very lucky lately!" I pause for a moment but then continue.
"Anyway, the pup didn't get squashed, which is a miracle, and has been mine ever since."
By now a wide grin has spread on my face. Remembering how small Storm was and how he was continuously flopping all over the place, chasing falling leaves or my ankles...extremely cute.

Looking up at the travelling dark clouds I motion for them. "We should probably get going."
Just when I've finished my last words hail starts coming down. At the same time the wind picks up making it hard to hear each other. So I shove the fox in the bag and grab my crutch.
"Damn, that came faster than expected. Let's find some shelter!"

[Ena Mena Mina Mo]

I stay sitting just so I won't have to stand back up and fidget because I just don't know what to do with myself. Small talk does not become me. But his story about how he acquired his dog is more interesting than I thought it would be, since I prefer to underestimate people than assume they'll impress me. I'm less likely to be disappointed that way, and who doesn't like a little excitement when a good story actually does come your way? Exactly. There's nothing wrong with being a bit of a pessimist.

I laugh when he mentions his luck. "Well, I think your version of luck is the universe's way of saying you were just born to be a quadriplegic." I nod to give emphasis to my words, since I specialize in deadpanning, and a small smile tugs up the corner of my mouth.

Until he draws my attention to the storm that I really should have noticed. One more reason I don't socialize: It's downright dangerous. I glower up at the gray sky. "You would," I grumble up at the sky. Reluctantly, I drag myself up onto my feet and put two fingers to my mouth. The wind is picking up, and even I'm not that loud, despite having learned from the best: my mother, who was always calling my brother, Sentry and I back from wherever we'd decided to sneak off to that day. Or night. Really, we weren't very discriminatory. Maybe we should have been, I start to think. How could I never have realized that he liked me? I mean, seriously? How many guys and girls snuck out to spend the night--fully clothed--together, and just wanted to be friends? I messed that one up about as well as I messed up my first time trying to rope a calf and almost hung myself in a pine tree.

I yelp when the first small clump of hail hits me on the back of my head. "What shelter?" I ask, a little sharper than I meant to be. "Don't answer that, I know a spot." There's an abandoned root cellar/bomb shelter built into the back of a steeper hill down by the river, which is frozen solid by this time in the season. I call for the dogs and goats to run with us, keeping an eye on hobbling Jack and my pace slower than we all could have run. The hail wasn't all that big--it had just come out of nowhere and startled me. The cellar wasn't all that large, but the goats aren't all that large either, and they don't mind settling on top of each other. They do it all the time when the temperature falls too low. I find the door and kick the snow and ice away from the base of it, shooing my dogs and charges in, then holding it for Jack. "You want light or you want quiet?" I ask over the wind. If we close the door we won't get the first, and if we leave it open we won't get the second. His choice though.