Something inside me instantly bristles.
“No,” I reply sharply. “I’m handling it perfectly fine, thanks.”
He looks at me.
Then at my half-ditched car.
Then back at me.
“Clearly.”
My blood pressure spikes instantly.
“Listen, I’ve had a very long day, and this psychotic sheep decided to play games with my sanity! So if you’re only here to make sarcastic comments, you can leave.”
He says nothing.
Instead, he walks toward Ragnar.
And Ragnar—that traitorous sheep—immediately steps aside.
Just like that.
No resistance.
No protest.
For him.
“Seriously?” I exclaim in disbelief. “Seriously, Ragnar?”
The man doesn’t respond, as though it’s perfectly normal for me to argue with livestock. He simply returns to his Land Rover, opens the trunk, and pulls out a tow rope.
I remain standing there speechless, torn between gratitude and indignation while he efficiently hooks the rope onto the rear tow hitch of my car, then secures the other end to the front of his Land Rover.
All without speaking.
Or looking at me.
“I can do it myself,” I protest weakly.
He gives me a look that very clearly says, Oh really?
Then he climbs back into his Land Rover and, within thirty seconds, pulls my car out of the ditch.
He unhooks the rope, tosses it back into the trunk, and heads toward the driver’s door.
“Wait!” I call, hurrying toward him. “I... thank you.”
He pauses with one hand on the door.
“Be more careful next time. These roads are dangerous.”
The tone is gruff.
Almost accusatory.
“I know how to drive,” I snap, offended. “That sheep jumped in front of me!”
