Walter looked at the children again.
Not children, exactly.
Teenagers.
Long arms.
Hungry faces.
Boots too clean on some of them, too worn on others.
One girl hugged a spiral notebook to her chest like she was afraid the wind might steal it.
Another boy kept staring at the roofline of the barn as if measuring every sag.
Eli had his hands jammed in his coat pockets, but even standing still he looked ready to build something.
Walter said, “This ain’t a petting zoo.”
“We know that,” Ms. Bell answered.
“People come out here, they listen.”
“We will.”
“They don’t go climbing where I didn’t tell them.”
“We won’t.”
Walter sipped his coffee.
The bitter heat hit the back of his throat.
He should have sent them away.
He knew that.
The farm was too bare now.
Too exposed.
It felt one step short of letting strangers into a room where someone had died.
But then Eli looked toward the pasture and said, almost under his breath, “I bet the wind sounds different out here.”
Walter heard him.
So did Ms. Bell.
The yard went quiet.
Walter set down the mug.
“All right,” he muttered. “Since you made the drive.”
That was all the invitation they needed.
The students came alive without getting loud.
They moved through the gate like they were entering church.
Walter did not smile.
Not where they could see.
He led them first to the tool shed.
He showed them the hooks where halters used to hang.
The sharpening bench.
The cracked grain bins.
The old water line he had repaired so many times he no longer remembered the original break.
The girl with the notebook asked careful questions.
Not show-off questions.
Real ones.
How do you tell when a beam is tired before it fails?
How do you know whether wood can still be saved?
How long should a gate last if you oil it and don’t let it slam?
Walter answered every one.
Then he forgot to resent the cold.
Out in the north pasture, the grass lay flat and silvered with frost.
The fence still stood, but one corner had started to lean where the ground softened near the ditch.
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