I blinked awake to the soft hush of morning light sneaking through the window blinds. My neck ached, my legs were cold, and for a second I couldn't remember where I was.
Then I noticed the throw blanket barely hanging off my knees and the faint scent of garlic still lingering in the air. Right.
The couch. I must've fallen asleep after dinner—somewhere between a full belly and the steady hum of crickets outside.
I sat up slowly, rubbing the side of my neck. The house was quiet in that way it only ever is at dawn—still, sacred, like the day hadn't quite decided to begin.
I folded the blanket, set it on the armrest, and pulled my knees up under me, letting my eyes drift shut for a moment.
I breathed in, slow and steady, then closed my eyes fully and whispered a few soft words of prayer. Just a thank you. Nothing fancy. Just… thank you for rest. For quiet. For this.
"Amen," I murmured, lips barely moving.
"Good morning, Papa!" I chirped suddenly, eyes flying open, just as the hallway creaked and he appeared—like I'd summoned him with divine timing.
He flinched, hand flying to his chest. "Good Lord."
I grinned unapologetically. "What? Too much cheer for you?"
He gave me a wary side-eye as he walked toward the fridge. "You good?"
"Never better." I stretched with a groan, then flopped back into the couch cushions. "I think your garlic-laced mystery dinner knocked me out cold."
He pulled the fridge open, grunted something I couldn't make out, then reached in and grabbed the carton of orange juice.
I squinted at him. "You're not gonna drink from that, are you?"
He glanced at me, shrugged, and did it anyway.
I tossed a pillow at him. "Savage!"
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't sass me. You're the one screaming good morning like a cartoon bird at six-something in the morning."
"Seven-something," I corrected, glancing at the wall clock.
"Still too early for all that drama," he grunted.
"Can we go to the farm today?" I asked, suddenly sitting upright. "Like—can we do the whole thing? Chickens, goats, cows, whatever's alive out there. I want to do everything."
"Mmhmm."
"I want the full experience." I pointed at him like I was making a vow. "Boots. Overalls. Dirt. All of it."
He opened his mouth to respond, probably with something sarcastic, but I was already halfway to the hallway.
"What about breakfast?" he called after me.
"Not hungry." I shouted back.
I reached my bedroom, tossed the door open, and ran straight to the bathroom to wash up.
My suitcase was dug through for something remotely farm-worthy. Jeans. Old tee. Hair tie.
Again, the ponytail came in handy, and I went for it.
I ran back into the hallway, nearly colliding with my dad on his way to the mudroom.
He held up both hands to stop me. "Okay, slow down."
I bounced on my heels. "I'm ready. Do I need gloves? Are there gloves? I feel like there should be gloves."
He blinked at me, then slowly narrowed his eyes. "How old are you again?"
I squinted at him. "Don't do that."
"No, no, I'm serious," he said, crossing his arms like he was preparing for a cross-examination. "Because you're acting like you're not… oh, I don't know…" he tilted his head dramatically. "thirty."
I gasped. "You did not just say that like it hurt you."
"It does hurt me," he said with mock horror. "Thirty! And still waking up like she's thirteen and about to feed goats for a Girl Scout badge."
I snorted. "That's rich coming from the man who still says 'golly' when he's surprised."
He pointed a finger at me. "That's a classic. Timeless."
I was already slipping on my boots, grinning like an idiot. "Whatever you say, Grandpa."
He shook his head and opened the door to the porch, letting in a crisp breeze that smelled like grass, dew, and freedom.
"Alright, farm girl. Let's see how long that city enthusiasm lasts when the goats start yelling."
"Bring it on," I said, practically skipping after him.
I hadn't been out on the farm in years, not since the first summer he moved out here. The morning air bit at my cheeks—crisp and a little wet with dew—but it smelled clean. Earthy, grassy, alive.
I followed Dad out past the little fenced garden, down a narrow dirt path that led to the barn.
The goats spotted us first. Or maybe it was the rustle of the feed Dad carried that set them off, but within seconds, they were trotting toward us like a stampede of hooved toddlers. One particularly round one zeroed in on me, ears twitching.
"Hey buddy," I cooed, crouching to greet him.
He headbutted my thigh. Hard.
"Ah. Okay. That's fine. I didn't exactly need a kneecap today."
Dad cackled, already spreading feed in their troughs. "That one's got issues."
"No kidding," I muttered, rubbing my leg.
But I stayed there anyway, scratching his coarse fur, laughing when he tried to chew my sleeve.
A chicken strutted past my foot like she owned the whole place, clucking with authority.
Somewhere in the distance, a cow let out a long, echoing moo.
"This place is chaos," I said, smiling. "I kind of love it."
He nodded, thoughtful. "It's quiet work. Honest. Ain't glamorous. But it's real."
I leaned against the fence and let that sit for a while. The goats munched, the chickens clucked, the world didn't expect anything from me here.
"Papa," I said after a moment, "you ever think about leaving all this behind? Going back to the city?"
He glanced up at me. "Every time I try to program a damn microwave. But no. I like it here. No traffic. No noise. And I get to wake up with the sun instead of an alarm."
I exhaled slowly, then smiled. "Sounds good."
He eyed me, then smirked. "All wide-eyed and excited. Still squealing at chickens like a child."
"I am not squealing," I lied, adjusting my hair.
He just shook his head, chuckling to himself as he moved on to the chicken coop.
I followed him, hopping over a low fence as a rooster glared at me like I owed him money.
•••