She’d loved the smell of the barn back then—fresh straw, sweet feed, warm fur. He used to whistle while he worked, and sometimes she’d whistle with him, both of them in tune, out of tune, but never alone. Now the silence pressed in.
She worked for hours until her arms ached and her back screamed. When she finally stepped outside, her jeans were streaked with dust and her hands were raw through the gloves. The sky had gone gray. Evening was closing in.