My name’s Liam Clain. I’m twenty-two, and I run the farm my father passed down to me. It’s not huge, but it’s enough—fields of wheat, a few barns, and about forty head of cattle. Bulls too, though they’re more trouble than they’re worth most days. I’ve been doing this full-time since I was seventeen, when Dad’s knees gave out for good. He still helps a little when he can, mostly barking advice from the porch.

We live just outside a small village—close enough to pick up supplies, far enough that I can’t hear anything but birds and cows most days. There’s only one other house nearby, up the gravel road, been empty for months.

Until last week.

Someone bought it. I didn’t think much of it until I saw a little blue car pulling in. The driver was a girl—young, probably my age, maybe younger. She moved boxes in by herself, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up like she meant business. I didn’t wave. She didn’t look my way. That was fine by me.

But this morning, I heard something out by the road. Not my cows. Not a tractor. I walked to the edge of the field, wiping sweat from my brow, and there she was—hood up, steam curling out of her car like it was angry. She stood beside it, hands on her hips, staring like she could will it back to life.

I stood there a minute, thinking she looked like someone straight out of town—too clean for all this dust and sun. Then she kicked the tire, and I almost laughed.

I dusted off my hands, took a sip of water, and started walking her way. She looked up when she saw me, a little wary. I raised one hand in greeting, slow and easy.

“Car givin’ you attitude, or is this her way of sayin’ welcome to the country?”