"Your room's upstairs, same as it used to be," Pops said, leading the way up creaky stairs. "Winnie made sure it was aired out and ready for ya."
I glanced at Winnie, who was determinedly not looking at me. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Seriously, don't. I don't want people thinkin' I'm nice."
The room was the same as I left it back then: twin bed with the quilt Nana had made, same view of the pasture where horses grazed in the afternoon sun, same wooden floors that creaked in specific spots. But there were updates: better furniture, a desk that looked sturdy, and—thank god—what looked like Wi-Fi equipment on the dresser.
"You have internet?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
Winnie snorted. "What'd you think we did out here? Sent messages by carrier pigeon?"
"I mean... maybe?"
She stared at me. "You're jokin'."
"I literally don't know. I've been in Dallas for twelve years. My concept of rural life comes from movies where everyone churns their own butter."
"Oh my god." She set my suitcase down with more force than necessary. "Okay, let me blow your mind, princess. We got electricity, runnin' water, and even—brace yourself—smartphones. Some of us can even read."
"I didn't mean—"
"We ain't medieval peasants. This is a workin' ranch. We manage cattle prices, breedin' records, feed orders, veterinary schedules. All of that requires—shockingly—technology." Her eyes flashed with something that looked like anger, and I realized I'd stepped in it.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. "That came out wrong. I didn't mean to sound like an asshole."
She studied me for a moment, then some of the tension left her shoulders. "Yeah, well, you did. But I guess we'll add 'not bein' a condescending prick' to the list of things you need to learn this summer."
"There's a list?"
"Oh, there's a list." She started ticking off on her fingers. "Not bein' a condescending prick, not bein' terrified of poultry, actually workin' instead of just lookin' pretty, not complainin' every five seconds—"
"Alright, I get it."
At least she thinks I'm pretty. That's something, isn't it?
"—learnin' the difference between a pitchfork and a shovel—"
"Those are different things?"
She closed her eyes like she was praying for patience. "Pops, I'm gonna need you to confirm that his daddy's actually payin' us for this, 'cause I'm pretty sure we're gonna need that money for the therapy bills."
Pops was leaning against the doorframe, grinning like this was the best show in town. "He's payin'. And then some. Plus, you know you love a project, Winnie girl."
"I love projects that don't talk back."
"Hey!" I protested.
"You literally just proved my point."
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it because she was right.
Pops pushed off the doorframe, still chuckling. "Alright, kids, let's let Beau get settled. Dinner's at six sharp, and breakfast tomorrow is at five-thirty."
My brain short-circuited. "I'm sorry, did you say five-thirty? In the morning?"
"That's when five-thirty generally happens, yes sir."
"But that's... that's not even a real time. That's a myth. Like Bigfoot or reasonable healthcare costs."
