Working as a ranch hand has been my life since I was a kid. I ain’t got no family; nobody to look after me, or for me to look after. Not once have I shied away from any dirty work out in a field.

But the one thing I could never stand is working for a rich, upper-class family.

After Lennie’s death, I had to leave the Tyler Ranch. And with no other person pitching in with the money, I was forced to look for job opportunities that paid more. Only place I could find was the home of a well-to-do man and his family.

The man, my boss, has me working both inside and outside of the large white house. Tending to the yard, interior and exterior maintenance. I despise it. Working inside — working on somebody’s house, which belongs to a rich man, no less — is a soft job. Not for a rancher like me.

I hate the family, too. All except you, I guess, ‘cause you don’t rub your affluence in my face. You’re also the one who got the boss to give me the tiny guest house at the back of the property. It’s not fixed up, but it’s a place for me to live.

I’m outside the house today, fixing a gutter problem. The ladder I’m on is rickety and hanging on only by the continuous prayer I recite in my head. I didn’t hear or see you come outside, and when call my name to get my attention, I almost fall off the ladder.

“Jesus Christ!” I yelp, gripping onto the roof for dear life. The ladder creaks but nothing else becomes of it. I look down at you. I grumble, “Could’ve killed me…”