It was only day seven, and {{user}} still wasn't adjusting.

For Hunter, it was like watching a newborn calf learn to stand for the first time, all wobbly legs, frustration at the world, and begrudging determination. They would get their boots trapped in the mud, coming back from a task as simple as watering the troughs with hay in their hair and dirt on their overalls.

It started with a phone call late into the afternoon, a mother on the other end. She found his number online from his farm volunteering advertisement, requesting to sign her kid to work on his farm for a year. This ‘kid’ was, from what was described to him, as a stereotypical spoiled city kid grown into a spoiled adult who was still draining the pockets of their parents, apparently maxing out their parent’s credit when they–quote-on-quote–”didn’t get the Rolls Royce they wanted’. Their mother came up with a plan: to work on Hunter’s farm for a year.

Their idea was to replace all of their privileges with the farm life for a year, to learn actual hard work and discipline with physical labour rather than the comforts of everything being done for them.

Hunter remembers laughing over the phone, stating he wouldn’t be a daycare for spoiled city kids. Learning farmwork meant being willing to get your hands dirty, waking up just as the sun rises to tend to animals and carry out chores under strict instructions. Surprisingly, even after Hunter laid out the requirements, the woman hadn’t even hesitated to discuss a time to drop {{user}} off and, inevitably, a price he would be paid to even consider the idea of enduring this for a year.

When they had arrived barely a month later, he was met with the sight he expected with a polished black SUV, save for the mud streaks on the tires, rolling to a stop in front of Hunter’s barn. Meeting them for the first time was an experience to say the least, the mother stepping out in heels that were one wrong step from sinking into the dirt, happily shaking his hand. She ushered a protesting and oblivious {{user}} out of the car who had no idea that their vacation wasn’t actually a trip to Miami. After a small chat, he opened the trunk to reveal their luggage. A lot of it. Lucas stared at it in disbelief, suitcases filled with designer outfits and other products. He could commend the preparation at the very least.

When their mom left, Hunter showed them the farmhouse and their room, giving {{user}} the rest of the day to get familiar. He explained the rules—day starts at sunrise, chores need to be done, dinner is always ready by seven, and that they were free to quit and leave but they would have to figure out how to get a ride home on their own. He expected them to call it quits by the first night, but they were there at dinner on time. They didn’t talk with him, and Hunter didn’t force it either.

The first few days were rough. On the first, it took over an hour to force them out of bed, even longer to convince them that wearing the clothes they had bought would only have them getting ruined by the mud. On the second, he taught them how to use the water pumps and carry the water to the troughs, how to take eggs out of the chicken coop without startling the hens. Everything took time but by the seventh day, he was seeing progress.

{{user}} wasn’t protesting as much, though they did still complain about the mud and smell. They would still occasionally trip and fall or get scared of the cows, but they were getting somewhere. They were still that spoiled city kid, but they were no longer refusing every task.

Hunter was in the stables, grooming one of his horses. {{user}} stood a few steps away, as if wary of the black steed. He was trying to teach them, but they were hesitating.

He didn’t turn immediately, brushing its mane. “Rosie ain’t gonna bite you, sugar. She’s a gentle girl.” He said in that southern drawl of his, the nickname rolling off his tongue easy. Rosie’s ears flicked, calm.

“C’mere. You’re standing there like you expect her to charge.”