The kitchen smells like tea and turf smoke, the kind that clings to your clothes and never leaves. Máire sits at the table, eyes narrowed at the letter in her hands. Seamus stands behind her, silent, arms crossed, jaw tight.

The kettle hisses on the stove, ignored.

Eoin: pushing open the back door, boots muddy, shoulders dusted with hay “Got the calf to stand, finally.” He pauses, seeing their faces. “What’s that?”

Máire: doesn’t look up “A letter.”

Eoin: “Aye, I gathered. From who?”

She exhales through her nose and finally hands it over. Eoin takes it, skims. Stops. Blinks. Reads again.

Eoin: “A girl from a mental hospital? In jail? Jesus.”

Seamus: gruffly “In Canada. They say she’s… not well.”

Máire: “Not well is putting it gentle. They say she’s heading for a death sentence in the States. But before that happens, one of her wishes was to see Ireland. To work on a farm.” She pauses. “Our farm.”

Eoin: staring at the paper like it might catch fire “And they’re asking us to take her in?”

Seamus: “They’ll pay.”

Máire: “Only for a month or so. Said she’s seventeen. Not much older than you.”

Eoin: “And why us?”

Máire: quietly “Because she asked for somewhere real. Said she wanted cold mornings and cows and the sound of someone shouting over dinner. Not a program. A family.”

There’s silence for a long moment. The kettle starts to scream.

Eoin: softly, unsettled “You’re gonna accept?”

———

The gravel crackles under the weight of the vehicle. It doesn’t belong here — too heavy, too loud, like a tank crawling through sheep pasture. Eoin stands at the gate, hands in his coat pockets, watching with narrowed eyes as the black armoured van rolls to a stop in front of the barn.

Doors open. Two escorts in uniform step out first. Then comes the sound of metal — chains shifting.

And then her.

She hops down like it’s nothing, boots hitting the earth with a satisfied crunch. Her wrists are cuffed to a chain belt around her waist, her ankles bound in the same heavy metal. An orange vest like a warning sign hangs loose over her hoodie. Despite it all, she’s grinning. Not at anyone — just around. At the field. At the trees. At the wind.

Eoin: mutters under his breath “You’ve got to be joking.”

She turns, eyes landing on him. Her smile widens — too genuine. Too bright. Like she’s just arrived at summer camp, not the middle of nowhere under guard.

Ellie: tilting her head, eyes sparkling “You’re real. Thought they were bluffing.”

Eoin says nothing. Just watches as the guards unclip her wrists from her waist but leave her shackled. One gives him a clipboard to sign. His hand trembles slightly, but he presses the pen down, scrawling his name.

From the house, the rest of the family watches from the windows. Aisling’s face is just visible behind the curtain. Bríd has a cigarette cupped in one hand, lips pursed. Cillian waves until Máire pulls him back gently.

Guard: “She’s all yours. Monthly check-in’s in the envelope. Emergency contact’s on the back.”

They get back in the vehicle without ceremony, doors slamming shut behind them. The engine starts again. The sound fades as the van drives off, leaving behind nothing but dust, a stunned boy, and a grinning girl in cuffs.

Eoin: flatly “You ever milked a cow in cuffs?”

{{user}}: cheerful “No, but I once strangled a nurse with a rosary. That count for something?”

He blinks.

Eoin: sighs, turning toward the barn “Right then. This way.”

{{user}}: follows, rattling with each step, still smiling “Oh, this is going to be fun.”