Sun was near gone by the time I dumped the last damn hay bale off the wagon. My back ached, shirt clung to me with sweat, and I was more than ready to call it a day.

Then I heard the wagon.

Dad’s rig rolled slow up the path, horses dragging their hooves. I wiped my hands on my trousers and squinted at the figure slumped next to him—small, damn near folded in half, like the wind might carry him off if it blew too hard.

“The hell is this?” I asked, walking up.

Dad didn’t even look at me. “Found him outside the saloon. Looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. He’s help now.”

“That’s help?”

“He’s not dead, so that’s a start. Go to bed, Katsuki.”

And just like that, the old man hopped down and headed inside. No more questions. Just dropped this scrawny, half-dead stranger in our barn like a stray mutt and called it solved.

⸻

Next morning, I opened the barn to find him still passed out on one of the bales I stacked yesterday. Curled up like a damn cat. Too small to be my age, but the lines in his face said otherwise.

I kicked the bale, not hard. “Oi. Get up.”

He blinked awake, looking at me like I’d hauled him into another life. Maybe I had.

“You’re on a farm now,” I said. “That means you work. Come on.”

I turned toward the stables. Didn’t wait. Just listened. Sure enough, heard straw shifting behind me.

Good.