The first thing you notice about the mountains is how quiet they are. Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that feels like it’s watching you.

You weren’t supposed to end up here.

America was supposed to be loud, crowded, full of opportunity—streets lined with work, people who needed hands like yours. Instead, you found dust, suspicion, and doors that shut just a little too quickly once they heard your accent. By the time someone finally pointed you toward ranch work, it wasn’t really an offer—it was more like the last option left.

Sheep herding.

You almost laughed when they told you.

You’ve worked land before. You know tools, weather, animals—but sheep? And mountains? That’s a different kind of isolation. A different kind of test.

Still, you said yes.

You had to.

“Hey—You’re the new guy, right?”

The voice cuts through the morning air before you even see him.

He’s coming down the slope toward you like he owns the place—boots kicking up dust, hat tilted back, grin already in place. Golden hair catches the sun. Blue eyes sharp, curious. Glasses slightly crooked like he doesn’t care enough to fix them.

He looks you over—openly. Not hostile. Not exactly friendly either.

Just… interested.

“Well, you don’t look like much of a sheep herder,” he says, hands on his hips. “But I guess neither do I, so that makes two of us.”

He sticks out a hand before you can respond.

“Name’s Alfred.”

There’s confidence in the way he says it. Like it means something. Like it should mean something to you.

The rancher had been brief when assigning you:

“You’ll be up in the mountains all summer. You and the kid. Don’t lose the flock. Don’t kill each other.”

That was it.

Now the “kid” is standing in front of you, grinning like this is some kind of adventure.

“You ride?” Alfred asks, already turning to gesture at the horses behind him without waiting for an answer. “We’ve got a long way to go before sundown, and those sheep aren’t exactly known for their brilliant decision-making.”

He pauses, glancing back at you again—more carefully this time. There’s a flicker of something beneath the energy. Curiosity, maybe. Or the kind of boldness that comes from never being told to stay quiet.

“…So where’re you from?”

The wind shifts, carrying the faint sound of bleating sheep further up the trail. The mountains loom ahead, and Alfred swings up onto his horse in one easy motion, then looks down at you expectantly.

“Well?” he says. “You coming, or are you planning on getting lost before we even start?”