Page 15

Clint

Morning comes early, whether you want it to or not. I’m already halfway through chores when the back door creaks open as I pass. I don’t turn right away. Most people don’t make it out here this early unless they have to.

Boots hit the steps, lighter and slower than my cousins’. I glance over my shoulder.

Autumn.

She’s got her hair piled on top of her head again, strands slipping loose and brushing her cheeks, drawing attention to those gray eyes that don’t miss much. Her lips press together, and there’s a tightness in her posture that says she’s forcing herself to stand here instead of running back inside. She’s not built for this place, not on the surface, but there’s something about the way she holds herself that keeps me from writing her off.

I didn’t expect that.

“You lost?” I ask, turning back to the bucket in my hand.

“No,” she shoots back, stepping off the porch. “I said I’d help with chores, didn’t I?”

I let that sit for a second, watching her out of the corner of my eye as she walks up beside me. There’s a little hesitation in her steps, but she covers it fast.

“Alright,” I say. “You can help.”

Her chin lifts just a fraction, like she wasn’t sure I’d actually let her.

“What do I do?”

I nod toward the coop. “Chickens need feed and water. Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m not going to overthink feeding chickens,” she mutters, already heading that way.

We’ll see.

I grab another bucket and follow at a distance, not hovering, just close enough to step in if she does something that’s gonna get her hurt, or worse… free our flock.

She flips the latch and pushes the door open.

Mistake.

They rush her all at once, feathers, noise and chaos. She jerks back, hands coming up like she’s about to square up with them.

“Jesus! Why do they fucking move like that?”

I huff a quiet breath, trying not to laugh. “They’re hungry.”

“Well, they’re aggressive about it.”

“They’ll settle once you feed ’em.”

She eyes them like she doesn’t trust a single one, then grabs the scoop, and tosses feed down a little too fast. It scatters unevenly, some hitting the ground, some bouncing off the feeder.

“Easy,” I say. “You throw it like that, they’ll fight over it.”

“I didn’t realize chickens had turf wars.”

“Worse. Chickens are omnivores; if they can fit it in their beak, they’ll eat it, including each other. You'll cause one of them to go all Hannibal Lecter on the others.”

She glances back at me, unimpressed, then adjusts, moving slower this time. More controlled as she tosses the crumbles on the ground. Watching the birds as she does.

I lean against the fence, arms crossed, letting her figure it out instead of stepping in again. She fills the water next, sloshing a little but not enough to matter. Her boots are already getting dirty, mud sticking to the edges, and she doesn’t even look down at them.

Most would, but she just keeps going.