Chapter 10
Barb woke the following day before the sky had fully brightened.
A gray wash hung over the pasture, soft enough that the grass still looked silver.
The house behind her felt cold and silent, the kind of silence that came from a world stripped of electricity rather than one simply waking up.
She stepped into her boots and walked outside before Cathy stirred.
The air was still and smelled clean. Barb crossed the yard and climbed the fence rail, letting herself stand above the pasture as the first threads of light touched the slope.
Her eyes traced the edges of their land automatically, the same way her mind used to trace plot outlines.
She did it with precision and purpose, and questions formed faster than answers.
Food wasn’t a pantry problem anymore. It was a system. It was a way of thinking.
Feed would run out, but the fields wouldn’t.
She jumped off the rail and began walking the perimeter.
The wire fence sagged in places but held its general shape.
She counted posts under her breath. Forty-three along the east line.
The wire tension along most of them felt decent, but three sections were loose enough that a determined animal or person could push through.
She pressed the wire with her palm. “You’re going to need attention. ”
She kept going. A rose-colored light pushed over the ridge, painting the grass in broader patches.
Decades of neglect had left the land wild, but wild wasn’t useless; it was responsive.
It meant she could shape it as long as she respected the shape it already had.
Behind her, the house door creaked open.
Cathy stepped out slowly, sweater pulled tight around her body, her hair messy and eyes dull with exhaustion. “You’re already working,” Cathy whispered.
“I started early,” Barb said. “There’s a lot to do today.”
“I don’t know if I can focus. Everything still feels…unreal.”
“I know. That’s why you’re going to work with me. Tasks help. They pull you forward.”
Cathy nodded weakly.
Barb walked her toward the field. “We’re not managing food the old way anymore. We’re building long-term systems. Which means we start with the animals.”
“Just tell me what to do.”
“You’ll follow me first,” Barb said. “Then you’ll help.”
They reached the fence line again.
Barb pointed to the slope near the barn. “We’re moving the goats today.”
“Why?”
“That section’s overrun with brambles. They’ll clear it naturally. It gives them food and saves us energy. It also opens sightlines near the barn.”
Cathy nodded, though her gaze drifted toward the trees.
Barb touched her arm lightly. “Stay with me,” she said.
“I’m trying.”
“You’re doing better than you think. The cows go here. They’re the most important animals we have and the most vulnerable if something goes wrong. They need water access, strong fencing, and proximity.”
“Why closest to the house?” Cathy asked.
“Visibility,” Barb said. “If someone wanders onto the property, they’ll see the cows first. We can keep a better watch from the porch. If a birth goes wrong, we’re ten seconds away instead of a quarter mile. The well gives us an advantage most people don’t have anymore.”
“It makes sense when you explain it.”
“That’s why I’m showing you everything so you understand the system, not just the work.”
They walked the length of the upper pasture, where the grass grew thickest. Barb crouched to examine the regrowth lines. Some areas had been overgrazed decades ago, but the land had rebounded. The new shoots were healthy.
“This will feed the cows for months,” she said. “If we rotate them correctly.”
Cathy crouched beside her. “It feels strange to think about months from now.”
“It’s the only way to think. Grief pulls you backward. Survival pulls you forward.”
“I don’t know how to be in either direction.”
“You don’t have to know yet.”
Barb stood and guided her toward the barn. The animals stirred at their approach. One of the goats bleated loudly, irritated by the delay in breakfast. The sound actually made Cathy huff out a faint, broken laugh.
“I forgot how dramatic they are,” she whispered.
“Drama’s a sign of health,” Barb said. “So, I’ll take it.”
They moved the goats first. Barb unlatched the pen and let them bolt into the open, their hooves clattering against the packed dirt. Cathy opened the next gate, watching them sprint toward the slope behind the barn.
“They’ll eat everything,” Barb said. “Which is exactly what I need them to do.”
“I didn’t realize animals had jobs.”
“They always did. We just forgot because machines replaced them.”
The cows came next. Cathy helped guide them through the paddock gate.
Barb secured the latch with rope, then pushed on the fence to test the structure.
She checked the trough, filled it from the pump, and watched the cows settle.
Their bodies moved slowly, unified, calm.
The stability helped her breathe a little easier.
They walked toward the lower field. The sows wandered near the tree line, their noses rooting in the soft soil.
Cathy watched them with distant curiosity. “Why did we put them down here again?” she asked.
“Because they’re natural tillers. They’ll tear up the soil better than any machine we used to rent. This area needs it. When they’re done, we can plant.”
“So, everyone here has a purpose.”
“Exactly.”
They circled back toward the house. The quail hut came next. Barb lifted one side slightly, checking the underside for signs of predators.
“We’re relocating them closer to the house,” she said. “Too many fox tracks out here, but the predators will hesitate if they smell people.”
Cathy helped her drag the hut across the grass. The birds fluttered inside, unsettled by the motion. When they finally set it near the porch, Cathy exhaled. “That feels better,” she said. “I can see them from the window now.”
“That’s the point,” Barb said, pointing toward the drainage ditch. “The ducks go there.”
“That ditch barely has water.”
“I’ll dig it out and deepen it. Give them a pond. Ducks are easy to keep happy if they have water and a safe place to sleep.”
She grabbed a shovel. The ground gave way more easily than she expected after the previous week’s rain. She dug steadily, pushing deeper until the ditch formed a more defined shape. Cathy watched for a moment, then grabbed another shovel and helped.
“You don’t have to do this part,” Barb said.
“I want to,” Cathy answered. “It feels real…like building something.”
They worked until the sun climbed high enough to warm their backs. Sweat dripped down Barb’s spine. Cathy’s hair clung damply to her forehead. The ducks wandered near the growing pond area, curious but hesitant.
When Barb stepped back, the shallow pool glimmered with the first hint of collected water. “They’ll love it by evening,” she said.
Cathy straightened, wiping her brow. “I counted the quail again. There are thirty-five. I counted twice.”
“You did well. Thank you.”
Cathy’s eyes softened, but sadness still hung behind them like a shadow.
“All day,” Barb said. “You’ve been here. You’ve kept moving. That matters more than you realize.”
“I don’t feel like I helped much.”
“You did.”
They walked the property one final time before dark.
The cows were settled. The goats were tearing into brambles with enthusiasm.
The sows rooted in the loosened soil. The ducks wandered near the new pond.
The quail remained alert in their safer spot.
Barb felt a shift inside her. A settling. A recognition.
A week before, the animals had arrived in chaos, hauled in crates and cardboard and dumped on a property still half asleep.
They had laid the foundations for something sustainable.
By nightfall, the land felt different, not secure or safe, but structured.
Cathy leaned against the porch railing and exhaled.
“I didn’t think I’d make it through today.”
“You made it,” Barb said. “You did the work. You stayed present.”
“It doesn’t feel like a farm anymore.”
“It’s not a farm,” Barb said quietly. “It’s a system.”
Cathy swallowed. “Does that make us farmers or something else?”
“It makes us people who intend to stay alive.”
The sky darkened, gold fading to blue. The valley held its unnatural quiet.
Barb scanned the tree line one last time, the shadows forming long ribbons between trunks.
She didn’t say the thought that pressed behind her ribs, but it shaped every breath she took.
The system could feed them for years if they guarded it and made every choice count.