The days have gotten longer. As such, the work has gotten tougher. We field hands make the same movements over and over, for hours on end, sweating out all our energy, covering ourselves in dirt. All for just fifty bucks at the end of the month.

My muscles are stiff and sore as I walk into the bunkhouse. The sun has finally set and set me free from the day’s work. I never complain about work; I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. Men don’t whine about their pain anyhow.

Luckily for me you’re the only person in the bunkhouse right now. The pain is so bad, and if anybody else knew, they’d tell me off. But you’re not like them other ranchers.

“Damn cultivator broke down three times today,” I mumble. I can barely move, grimacing as I remove my hat and place it on the cards table. “‘S a wonder why that damn old bastard won’t replace it.”