One
The alarm went off at four, same as always. Wes slapped at his phone until the noise stopped, then lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling. His body ached in places he didn’t remember using the day before. Thirty years old and he felt fifty.
Five more minutes.
He gave himself three, then swung his legs out of bed.
The farmhouse was cold. Heat didn’t reach the upstairs like it used to, not since he’d moved up here and given Henry the bedroom downstairs. Wes pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a flannel shirt, both smelling faintly of pine sap and chainsaw exhaust. He’d shower later. Maybe.
Downstairs, he paused outside Henry’s door, listening. Soft snoring. Good. His father had slept through the night, which meant Wes had too—no 2am texts about needing help to the bathroom or not being able to find the TV remote.
Small mercies.
The coffee maker gurgled to life while Wes pulled on his boots. Through the kitchen window, he could see the barn lit up like a beacon, his crew already there. Miguel and his nephew, Charlie, were good workers, early risers. They’d have the tractors warming up, the first batch of trees ready to load onto the lot.
First Friday of December.
Wes poured coffee into a thermos—black, no sugar. His phone buzzed. A text from Miguel:Boss, we've got a problem with the baler.
Of course we do.
He typed back:Be there in five.
The air outside bit at his face, sharp and clean. Frost crunched under his boots as he crossed the yard. The trees stood in perfect rows beyond the barn, dark silhouettes against the pre-dawn gray. Forty acres of Fraser, balsam, and noble firs. Three generations of Daltons had worked this land.
And you’re about to lose it.
“Shut up,” he muttered to himself.
The barn smelled like hay and gasoline. Miguel stood by the baler, scratching his head. “It’s making a noise,” he said. “Like this—” He mimicked a grinding sound that Wes felt in his back teeth.
Wes crouched down, peering into the machine’s guts. “Hand me that wrench.”
It took twenty minutes and skinned knuckles, but he got it running.
Miguel beamed, eyes bright. “You’re a genius, boss.”
“I’m a guy who can’t afford a new baler.” Wes stood, wiping grease on his jeans. “Get those fraser firs loaded first. People want them fresh.”
By eight, the sun was up, and customers were already trickling in. Families with kids in puffy jackets, couples holding hands, retirees who came every year, remembering when Wes’s grandfather had run the place. Wes smiled, shook hands, pointed people toward the tree varieties, and tried not to think about the stack of bills on his desk.
Forty-seven thousand dollars behind.
Foreclosure notice: December 24th.
Merry fucking Christmas.
At noon, he took a break, sitting on the tailgate of his truck with a sandwich he’d forgotten to eat at breakfast. His phone buzzed—Henry’s monitoring app. The little dot showed his father was awake, moving around the house.
Wes watched the little dot on the screen travel from the bedroom to the kitchen. His father could manage breakfast on his own—cereal, toast, nothing that required the stove. They’d learned that the hard way after the stroke.
February had been hell. Watching Henry relearn how to walk, how to grip a fork, how to form words that didn’t slur together. The man who’d taught Wes everything—how to prune a tree, how to handle a chainsaw, how to run a business—suddenly couldn’t tie his own shoes.
So Wes had stayed and given up the idea of getting out, of having a life that wasn’t measured in feet of pine and gallons of sap, just like he’d given up art school so many years ago.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
He shoved the sandwich back in its bag, appetite gone.
