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The main house kitchen looked wrong with no people in it.

Too warm. Too still.

Big John's chair stood at the table. Boots lined the wall. Snow melted from us onto the floor our mother had once made us mop with old towels under our feet.

I laid the calf on blankets by the stove.

Josie knelt on the hearth and worked.

She dried its ears. Checked its mouth again. Tubed warm colostrum into its belly. I fed split wood into the stove until the iron clicked and heat filled the space between us.

The calf lay still.

Josie rubbed its chest.

"Come on, sweetheart."

Nothing.

Her shoulders had begun shaking again, this time from exhaustion.

I covered her hand with mine and rubbed with her.

The calf's ear twitched.

Josie stopped.

We waited.

Its front leg jerked. Then its head lifted two inches and dropped.

"Again," she whispered.

It lifted again.

I sat on the kitchen floor with my back against the cabinet. Josie settled between my knees without discussion, her spine against my chest. We kept the calf between us and the stove.

For ten minutes, there was only breathing.

Mine.

Hers.

The calf's.

When its mouth warmed enough to suck two fingers, Josie tipped her head back against me.

"Ready."

I kissed her cold temple.

"Ready."

We carried it back together.

***

By dawn, the wind dropped. Not slowly. It went from striking the barn walls to a low steady push, then eased until the silence beyond the siding became noticeable.