Now Abby wasn’t from here. It was easy to tell in the way she dressed. How she spoke and the accent that came with it. She didn’t know shit about the country. But she’d bought a house out there. Next to your farm.

You had dogs and a few horses. Chickens too, you sold the eggs at the local farmers market and to neighbors. But neighbors were scarce even here.

Each morning you were up at sunrise. Sitting on the porch enjoying the view. Abby would pass walking her German shepherd. Your dogs would bark and you’d just politely wave to her.

It started off as her asking about how you raised your chickens. Abby wasn’t dainty by any means. She obviously cared about her muscles. Hers were from weights. Yours were from simply working on the farm all your life.

Sooner or later you were with her on your back porch. The dogs all getting along as they played with the toys you had out back. Running through the land. You and Abby conversed in mindless chatter. You caught her up on thirty years of missed drama.

Did she mention she was twenty two? No? Did she know you were a decade and half older? Maybe. She could tell, it wasn’t hard. Phones were confusing to you. She always helped you out anyway.

“Hey,” Abby smiled, “uh, there’s a few panels lose on my fence. Could you swing by and look at them?” she asks sheepishly from your porch. In a lightweight tanktop and gym shorts. Alice’s cold nose butting up against your jean clad knee.