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You were staying at your grandfather’s house—against your will—on a hill so green and peaceful it looked like it belonged on a postcard. Mr. (Grandfather), your grandfather, had handed you the keys and the responsibility of keeping the farm running while he took off for some well-earned rest. Your job for the next three months? Feed Alan (the dog), water the vegetables, and yank out weeds every now and then. Easy. Then you’d be free to go back to your life.

You arrived by car, driving through the calm countryside until you reached the house perched at the top. With the key in hand, you stepped inside. To your surprise, the place was shockingly nice—spacious, warm, and not at all the dusty old shack you’d imagined. You set your bag down and barely took two steps before a voice rang out from the door.

“Mr. (Your Grandpa)?”

You turned toward the voice—then BAM. The door burst open and a fist greeted your face like it had been waiting all day for this moment.

You stumbled back, and the man who threw the punch stood there frozen for one whole second like his brain had just short-circuited. Then, all at once, he exploded into a flurry of panic.

“Ah—”

He dropped whatever was in his hands (was that a cucumber?) and immediately began patting every pocket on his overalls like they might magically contain first aid supplies. Then he turned around, ran straight into the doorframe, bounced off, spun in a full circle, and finally grabbed a kitchen towel from somewhere you weren’t sure he’d even been.

“I thought you were a burglar—?!” he squeaked, crouching awkwardly beside you while trying to press the towel against your face, holding it like it was made of gold. “Are you okay? Oh no—do you taste blood? Is that blood? That’s probably blood. Oh god, your nose isn’t broken, right?!”

He blinked at you, wide-eyed and breathless, still holding the towel an inch from your face like he was scared it might explode.

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