“I can’t believe they’re having us do this,” they whispered to Dahlia. “What if someone gets hurt?”
“Um,” Dahlia said, and London knew she was laughing at them, and they did not care. “I’m pretty sure they’ll be in those stall thingies, and we’ll be outside those stall thingies, so I think we’ll be all right.”
“Stanchions,” Barbara supplied.
“Right!” Dahlia’s eyes lit up. “They’ll be in stanchions. It’ll be okay, little buddy.” She patted London patronizingly on the shoulder, her smile stretching practically to her ears.
“They move suddenly sometimes,” London stated. Dahlia was so tiny. “They could crush you.”
“So you’re saying that, in all your time volunteering on Tennessee farms, you’ve never milked a cow.”
“Of course not,” London scoffed. “Seriously, there are machines for this.” A second later, “Wait, haveyoumilked a cow before?” It would track that fish-filleting-master Dahlia would also have mastery of large farm animals. London had learned you never knew what to expect with Dahlia Woodson.
“No.” She shook her head. “But I’m excited to.”
“Good god,why?”
“London,” Dahlia said seriously. “I have not asked much of you, in our less-than-two-week-old friendship, but I must insist that you tell me, right now, exactly what happened in your past between you and the cows.”
“Nope.” London shook their head. “Never.” And that was a promise.
You smoke weed with your cousin Oliver in high schoolone time. . .
The cameras were rolling again.
“If you’ve ever used even a dab of butter in one of your cooks,” Sai Patel was saying, “you will appreciate the existence of that butter more after today. Gather ’round, please, and pay careful attention as Randy demonstrates the proper technique . . .”
Begrudgingly, London took meticulous notes on washing, stripping, holding, and squeezing teats. Jacob, beside them, snickered every time Randy saidteats, and really, this was all a bit much. For anyone, London thought, except for, apparently, Dahlia Woodson.
She raised her hand when Randy asked for questions.
“Do your cows have names?”
Randy gave her a long, serious farmer stare.
“No,” he finally said.
“Well,that’sclearly a lie,” Dahlia muttered, scribbling furiously in her notepad.
“What are you even writing down?” London couldn’t help but ask. Even though they knew.
“Possible cow names.Obviously.”
London peeked over her shoulder. Her handwriting was big and loopy, messy. It fit her perfectly.
“Margaret?” they asked skeptically.
“I mean, look at her.” Dahlia gestured to the cow behind Randy, freshly milked. “She is clearly a Margaret.”
“You know, I agree, love,” Barbara piped up.
Dahlia beamed back at London. “See?”
It disturbed London, how close Dahlia’s pure delight in this moment pushed them toward feeling almost glad to be in this barn.
Which, for the record, they still were not.
Which was confirmed when their name was called in the first lineup of milkers. While Graham Family Farm had more than enough cows for each contestant,Chef’s Specialdid not have enough crew onsite to film them all at once. Which meant that when London approached the black-and-white beast assigned to them, Dahlia was right behind, watching, waiting for her own turn.
