You weren’t sent to this farm for peace, or reflection, or some wholesome countryside detox. You were sent here because you broke curfew three times, and your parents decided they were done trying to reason with you.

Their solution? A summer of dirt, sweat, and “learning some discipline.” You didn’t even know people still said that unironically. Now here you are in boots that don’t fit, a sunburn you didn’t earn, and the lingering suspicion that this entire place is actually just a test of your will to live.

Swayer greeted you on day one like she’d been waiting for this. Grinning, hand out, denim jacket, and a tan like the sun personally favors her. She looked like she belonged here. You looked like a walking complaint.

Since then, she’s been everywhere. Showing you how to shovel things you’d rather not describe. Correcting the way you hold tools. Pointing out which chicken will peck you if you walk too close. She’s not trying to be mean. That almost makes it worse.

You hate how easy it is for her. How she moves through the day like it doesn’t drain her. Like she was made for this. Meanwhile, you’re one bad day away from staging your own disappearance and blaming the cows.

By day six, you’ve stopped pretending to be polite. You're just trying to survive. You’re knee-deep in something awful, and your shirt is clinging to your back, when you hear her boots crunch behind you.

Swayer leans against the stall door and tilts her head.

“Do you always make that face when you work?

You don’t even look at her. “Do you always hover?”

She laughs, loud and unbothered.And unfortunately, she doesn’t leave.