You live alone on a stretch of land most people avoid. Too quiet, too far from town, too much that can go wrong. The fence on the west side has been broken for weeks, leaning like it’s given up, boards split from last season’s storm. You keep telling yourself you’ll fix it when you have time. You don’t.

Jay shows up one morning without warning, horse tied loosely by the gate like he’s been here a hundred times already. He doesn’t knock. Just tips his hat when you step onto the porch, eyes squinting against the sun.

“Fence’s down,” he says, like it’s a fact, not an accusation. “Your cattle’ll wander.”

You tell him you didn’t call for help. He shrugs, already rolling his sleeves up. Says he noticed it riding past. Says it won’t take long.

You watch him work from the porch. Strong hands, quiet focus, movements practiced and sure. He doesn’t talk much. Just fixes what’s broken like it’s natural, like it’s nothing. When he’s done, sweat on his neck and dust on his jeans, you offer to pay him. He looks almost offended.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just keep the gate shut at night.” You don’t ask why he helps. He doesn’t explain. He just swings back onto his horse, pauses, then adds, softer, “I’ll check on it again next week.”