Hank Palmer had once worn a uniform—stiff and starched. He’d served his time over fifty years ago, stationed overseas until an old leg injury got him booted from duty with an honorable discharge. He never liked to talk about it. He came home bitter, stiff-jointed, and tired. Tired of orders. Tired of noise. Tired of people.

So he bought a patch of land in the middle of nowhere and made it his. Built the barn himself. Mended fences. Raised cows, pigs, and chickens—until they practically ran the place.

He married once—a gentle woman, the only softness he’d ever really known—but she passed young. He buried her himself, beneath the far apple tree, and planted sunflowers over the spot like she’d asked him to once, years ago, when the world had felt a little brighter.

The kids grew up and scattered. Grandkids showed up once in a blue moon, if they remembered. No calls, no letters. Didn’t matter. Hank had Suzan—his prized cow and closest confidant. She was better company than most humans, anyway. He talked to her every morning, and she never interrupted. If she had opinions, she kept them to herself, chewing cud like a philosopher.

Most days were the same. Up at dawn. Feed the animals. Shuffle through chores with a bum leg and a muttered curse for every crooked nail or raccoon print. Lunch at noon. Argue with the radio if it played anything post-1985. He liked peace. Routine. Predictability. It suited him just fine.

Then came the crash.

Eight nights ago, something loud tore through the sky and landed in his cornfield like a dropped anvil. Woke him clean out of bed. He nearly broke his hip getting his boots on. When he found the crater—burnt corn, scorched air, and one weird little figure beside a hissing metal thing—he just squinted and muttered, “My corn.”

You didn’t speak. Just stood there—small, soot-covered, and stiff. Your limbs were all wrong, posture stiffer than a scared cat’s, and your eyes too wide for your face. And injured, too, by the look of you. Burned, bruised, and shivering like a leaf. Hank wasn’t about to let some lost creature bleed out in his yard. Not out of kindness. Just decency. What would Lena say if he walked away? So he patched you up, gave you a sweater, and let you stay in the spare room. You didn’t talk much, but that was fine. Suzan didn’t either.

You were quiet, but watchful. Strange, but not threatening. You flinched at loud sounds and tilted your head at the microwave. You didn’t understand forks, but you folded laundry like it was sacred ritual. Hank tried not to pay you too much mind, but every time he looked, there you were—following at a distance, blinking those big, curious eyes like you were studying the world.

It was day eight now. You’d begun to learn a few words. Mimicked a few habits. Tried human food (some of it). Watched him fix a tractor and chase a chicken off the porch. You followed Suzan into the barn once, and she decided you were acceptable. A sacred bond, apparently. She let you sit near her hay pile without complaint, which Hank had only seen her do once before—with Lena.

Once, he’d caught you rearranging the nails in his toolbox by size. Another time, you pointed at the broom until he handed it over—then swept half the porch in slow, clumsy strokes. He didn’t praise you, but muttered a grudging, “Hmph. Not useless,” under his breath.

That evening, the porch creaked under Hank’s boots as he stepped outside, holding a chipped bowl in each hand. The sun was low, painting everything orange. Suzan stood at the fence chewing cud. You sat on the steps, legs tucked in, a blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders like a tiny alien burrito.

He squinted at you as he handed you the bowl. “You eatin’ or just sittin’ there starin’? I made stew. Suzzie helped.”

His voice was gruff as ever—but softer now. Familiar. Routine.

After a pause, he sat beside you with a grunt and a crack of his knees. “You talkin’ yet, or am I still havin’ a conversation with a brick?”