4. Matt
MATT
Four-thirty comes too damn early, but livestock don't care about sleep schedules. I flip the light switch in Mira's room and yank the blankets clean off her bed in one smooth motion.
"Up. Now."
She curls into a ball, face buried in the pillow, dark curls splayed everywhere. A muffled groan escapes her.
"Matt, it's still dark outside. I thought work starts at 6AM."
"Cows need milking. Chickens need feeding. Sun's not gonna wait for you to finish your beauty sleep." I cross my arms, jaw tight. "You wanted your allowance back, you follow farm hours."
"I didn't want to stay here," she mumbles into the pillow. "Mom made me."
I grab her ankle and drag her toward the edge of the mattress. She yelps, finally opening those caramel eyes to glare up at me.
"Doesn't matter why you're here. You're here now, and you're pulling your weight." I let go and head for the door. "Five minutes. Meet me in the barn. Dress warm."
"Five minutes? Matt, I need to shower, I need coffee, I need?—"
I stop in the doorway, not bothering to look back.
"Clock's ticking, sweetheart. Every minute you're late, I'm adding another chore to your list."
The sound of her frustrated huff follows me down the hall.
I grab my coat from the hook by the kitchen door and head outside into the pre-dawn chill.
My breath clouds in the air as I cross the yard to the barn, the familiar routine settling my thoughts.
The motion-sensor light kicks on, and I pull the heavy door open.
Inside, the cows shift in their stalls, knowing what time it is. I get the equipment ready, check the feed, make sure everything's set up exactly how it needs to be.
Seven minutes later—two minutes late—Mira stumbles through the barn door in an oversized hoodie and jeans that hang loose on her hips. Her curls are barely tamed, pulled into a messy knot. No makeup. Eyes still half-closed.
"I'm here," she mutters.
"You're late." I nod toward the feed bags stacked against the far wall. "Start hauling those to the troughs. Two bags per stall."
Her mouth falls open.
"Those are huge!"
"They're fifty pounds. I've seen you carry those shopping bags." I turn back to the milking station. "Get moving."
She huffs again, louder this time, but trudges over to the feed bags. I watch from the corner of my eye as she squats down, wraps her arms around one, and tries to lift. Her knees shake. She manages to get it off the ground, takes three steps, then drops it with a heavy thud.
"This is insane," she pants. "Can't we use a wheelbarrow or something?"
"Wheelbarrow's broken. Waiting on parts." I lean against the stall gate, arms crossed. "You've got two choices. Drag them or carry them. Either way, they need to get there."
She shoots me a look that could strip paint, then bends down and starts dragging the first bag across the concrete floor. The sound of the burlap scraping echoes through the barn. Her face reddens with effort, curls coming loose from that knot.
"Two more to go after that one," I remind her.
"You're enjoying this."
"I'm teaching you what work looks like." I push off the gate and head to the first cow, checking her udder. "You spent how long at college pretending to go to class?"
Her hands still on the bag.
"I went to class."
"Until you stopped going and kept cashing your mom's checks." I glance over my shoulder. "That's called stealing, Mira."
Her jaw tightens. She yanks the bag harder, muscles straining under that baggy hoodie.
"Mom didn't have to send me here. She could've just... talked to me."
"Talking didn't work." I turn back to the cow, running my hand along her flank. "So now you're here, and you're gonna learn what responsibility actually means."
She finally gets the first bag to the trough and dumps the feed in with zero care. Half of it spills onto the floor. I bite back a comment. She'll figure it out the hard way when she has to sweep it up later.
"Next one," I say.
She groans, dramatic as hell, and heads back to the pile. This time she tries a different approach—wrapping both arms around it and waddling forward like a penguin. It's almost funny, but I keep my face neutral.
"How many cows do you even have?" she gasps.
"Twelve in this barn. Another eight in the south pasture."
Her eyes go wide.
"Twenty bags?"
"Math skills are coming back. Good sign."
By six, she's hauled the last bag to the final trough, hands red and shaking. Sweat plasters loose curls to her temples despite the cold. She leans against the barn wall, chest heaving.
"Break," I say, wiping my hands on a rag. "Kitchen. Ten minutes."
She doesn't argue, just pushes off the wall and stumbles toward the house. I follow a few paces behind, watching the exhausted slump of her shoulders.
Inside, Elena, Mira's mom is at the stove flipping eggs while my father sits at the table reading news on his tablet. The smell of coffee and bacon fills the warm kitchen.
"There's my girl!" Elena turns, face lighting up. "Look at you, up before dawn! I'm so proud."
Mira drops into a chair like her legs gave out. She reaches for the coffee pot with both hands, barely managing to pour without spilling.
"Honey, you look flushed. Are you feeling okay?" Elena sets a plate in front of her—eggs, bacon, toast.
"I'm fine." Mira's voice comes out flat. She wraps her fingers around the mug, staring at nothing.
"Matt's been working you hard, hasn't he?" Elena glances at me, smile widening. "That's exactly what she needs. Structure. Discipline."
Dad nods without looking up from his tablet.
"Character-building. Nothing wrong with honest labor."
I pour my own coffee and lean against the counter, watching Mira shovel eggs into her mouth like she hasn't eaten in days. Her hands still shake slightly around the fork.
"She's doing fine," I say. "Slow at first, but she'll get the hang of it."
"See?" Elena beams at Mira. "Matt thinks you're doing great."
Mira's eyes meet mine across the table, and the look she gives me could freeze hell. I take a sip of coffee, holding her stare.
"Plenty more to do after breakfast," I add.
Her fork clatters against the plate.
Ten minutes later, we're back outside. The sun's finally breaking over the tree line, washing everything in pale gold light. I lead her to the stalls, where the smell hits before we even step inside—manure, hay, the thick musk of livestock.
"Shovel's there." I point to the wall where tools hang on hooks. "Wheelbarrow's by the door. Start with stall one, work your way down."
She stares at the shovel like it might bite her.
"You want me to... shovel shit?"
"I want you to muck out the stalls. All twelve." I grab the shovel and thrust it into her hands. "Then you're scrubbing down the livestock trailers out back."
Her face goes pale.
"Matt, I?—"
"Clock's ticking." I cross my arms and plant myself right behind her. "Get started."
She steps into the first stall, nose wrinkling. The horse inside shifts, tail swishing. Mira holds the shovel like it's a foreign object, prodding at the soiled hay with the tip.
"Dig in," I say from the doorway. "You're not gonna move it by poking at it."
She shoots me a glare over her shoulder but wedges the shovel deeper, lifting a small scoop. Manure slides off the blade before she can get it to the wheelbarrow.
"Again."
"I'm trying?—"
"Try harder." I step closer, right at her shoulder. "Angle the blade. Use your legs, not just your arms."
She tries again, managing to keep most of it on the shovel this time. Three steps to the wheelbarrow. She dumps it with a grimace, gagging slightly.
"Eleven more stalls after this one," I remind her.
Her shoulders sag.
By the third stall, she's barely lifting the shovel. Her movements turn sloppy, clumsy. Manure drops in clumps across the floor she just swept.
"Pick that up."
She whirls on me, face flushed and streaked with dirt.
"I just did this section!"
"And now you're making it worse." I nod at the mess. "Clean it."
"Matt, I'm tired. Can't I just?—"
"No." I cut her off, voice flat. "You cut corners, you do it again. That's how it works."
She bends down with a huff, scooping up the dropped manure with her gloved hands. Her whole body trembles from the effort. Those soft hands that probably never held anything heavier than a phone are learning real fast what labor feels like.
"You know what?" She straightens, shovel braced against her hip. "This is cruel. I made a mistake, okay? I messed up with school. But this—" she waves at the stalls "—this is just you getting off on bossing me around."
I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.
"You think shoveling shit is cruel? Try working every day since you were fifteen to keep a place like this running. Try watching your mom lose sleep over bills while your stepdad's daughter pisses away thousands on a fake college career."
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't look away.
"That's not fair."
"Life's not fair, sweetheart." I cross my arms. "Get back to work."
For a second I think she might throw the shovel at me. Her fingers go white-knuckled around the handle, breath coming fast and sharp. But she turns back to the stall, attacking the soiled hay with jerky, angry movements.
"You missed the corner," I say after a minute.
"Are you kidding me right now?"
"Left side. Behind the water trough." I lean against the stall gate. "Get all of it or you're starting over."
She jams the shovel into the corner with enough force to scrape concrete. A fresh pile comes up, bigger than the others. She hauls it to the wheelbarrow, face twisted in a scowl that would be cute if it wasn't aimed at me.
By stall seven, she can barely stand. Her legs shake every time she bends down. Sweat soaks through her hoodie, dark patches spreading across her back and under her arms. Those curls stick to her neck in damp spirals.
"Break," she gasps. "Please, just five minutes?—"
"You get a break when all twelve are done."
"Matt—"