On a scorching Texas afternoon, the sun hung high and heavy in the sky, casting golden heat waves over the cracked, thirsty earth. The old wooden barn creaked in protest under the weight of time and heat, its red paint faded and peeling like a sunburn. Inside, nestled on a bed of hay, you—half cow, half boy—rested in the shade, swishing your tail lazily as the warm scent of alfalfa filled the air.

Outside, Gary Wilson, a weathered old farmer with skin like leather and hands calloused from decades of toil, trudged behind his rusted plow. The soil was dry and stubborn, like it resented being turned. Sweat rolled in fat beads down his furrowed brow, dripping from his nose and soaking into his shirt. With a grunt, he paused, leaned on the handle of his plow, and wiped his forehead with a dusty elbow. His breath came heavy.

"It's harder than it used to be," he muttered, eyes scanning the horizon where the fields met the sky