4. Matt #2
"You wanted to live off your mom's money without putting in the work. Now you're putting in the work." I push off the gate. "Keep moving."
She makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a growl, turning back to the stall. The shovel shakes in her grip. She can barely lift it anymore, using momentum more than strength to get the manure into the wheelbarrow.
"Faster," I say.
"I can't go any faster!"
"Then work smarter. You're wasting motion. Watch." I step in, take the shovel from her hands. She stumbles back, breathing hard. I demonstrate—smooth, efficient scoops that use body weight instead of arm strength. Three loads in the time it took her to do one. "Like that."
I hand the shovel back. She stares at it like I just gave her a death sentence.
"I hate you right now," she whispers.
"Good. Channel it." I step out of the stall. "Five more to go."
By stall ten, she drops the shovel completely. It clatters against the concrete, and she sinks down right there in the doorway, head in her hands. Her shoulders shake.
"I can't." Her voice cracks. "I can't do this anymore."
I crouch down next to her, studying the exhausted curve of her spine, the tremor in her fingers. Part of me wants to cave—tell her she's done enough for today, let her rest. But that's not what she needs.
"You've got two more stalls," I say, voice even. "Then you're done."
She lifts her head, and those caramel eyes are wet. Tears track through the dirt on her cheeks.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"I'm not doing anything to you." I reach out, grip her chin so she can't look away. "You did this to yourself. Now you're fixing it."
"By torturing me?"
"By teaching you that actions have consequences." I let go and stand, offering my hand. "Get up."
She stares at my palm for a long moment. I can see the war in her face—pride versus exhaustion, anger versus the need for help. Finally, she reaches up and lets me pull her to her feet. Her legs wobble, and I steady her with a hand on her hip.
"Two more," I repeat. "You can handle two more."
She picks up the shovel with both hands, movements slow and mechanical. I stay close this time, not touching but close enough that she knows I'm there. She digs into the soiled hay with weak, shaking strokes.
"That's it," I murmur. "Keep going."
Stall eleven takes twenty minutes. Stall twelve takes even longer. By the time she dumps the last load into the wheelbarrow, the sun's fully up and the day's warmth is starting to burn off the morning chill.
She stands there swaying, shovel braced against the ground like a crutch. Sweat and dirt smear her face, her hoodie, her jeans. She looks absolutely wrecked.
"Done," she whispers.
"Good." I take the shovel from her before she drops it again. "Now grab the hose. We're washing down the trailers."
Her head snaps up, eyes wide with disbelief.
"You said?—"
"I said when you finish the stalls, you move on to the trailers." I nod toward the equipment yard. "Let's go."
Her boots stomp against the gravel, each step a protest. But she follows. That's what matters.
"Hose is on the wall," I point. "Water pressure's high, so brace yourself."
She drags herself over and uncoils the heavy hose, fumbling with the nozzle. When she twists the valve, water explodes out and the force nearly knocks her backwards. She yelps, fighting to control it.
"Both hands," I call out. "Aim low and work your way up."
She sprays down the first trailer in jerky arcs, soaking her jeans in the process. Water splashes back, mixing the dirt on her clothes into mud. She doesn't complain this time. Too tired.
The rest of the morning blurs into a parade of tasks. Haul feed bags to the chicken coops. Rake out the paddock. Scrub water troughs until they shine. I'm on her heels the entire time, watching, correcting, pushing.
"You missed a spot."
"That corner needs work."
"Do it again."
By noon, Elena calls us in for lunch. Mira collapses into her chair like her bones dissolved. She barely lifts her fork to eat the sandwich in front of her. I pile food on my own plate and eat standing up, leaning against the counter.
"How's she doing?" Elena whispers to me while Mira zones out over her glass of water.
"She's learning."
After lunch, it's straight back outside. I have her stack hay bales in the storage barn—fifty of them, each one awkward and heavy. She grunts and struggles, face red, arms shaking. Then it's cleaning out the feed shed, sweeping the barn floors, organizing tools that got left scattered.
"Hang them by size," I tell her, pointing at the wall hooks. "Biggest to smallest."
She doesn't argue anymore. Just does it, mechanical and slow.
When the sun finally starts to sink, casting long shadows across the yard, I check my watch. Five-thirty. Thirteen hours since I woke her up.
"Done for today."
She looks up from where she's crouched, putting away a rake. For a second she doesn't move, like she's not sure she heard right.
"Go shower. Dinner's at six."
She doesn't say a word. Just drops the rake, turns, and drags herself toward the house. Her boots scuff against the gravel, each step heavy and uneven. I watch her go, the way her shoulders stay rigid despite the exhaustion radiating off her in waves.
The door slams behind her. Not loud enough to bring Elena running, but hard enough that I feel it.
Good. Anger means she's still got fight left in her.
I finish locking up the barn, checking each stall door twice out of habit.
The routine settles something in my chest that's been wound tight all day.
Teaching her was necessary, but watching her struggle—watching those tears streak through the dirt on her face—that part gnawed at me more than I expected.
She'll be sore tomorrow. Probably can barely lift her arms right now.
But she finished. Every single task I threw at her, she finished.
I head inside and wash up at the mudroom sink, scrubbing dirt from under my nails. Through the ceiling I hear the shower turn on upstairs, pipes groaning in the old walls.