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Priya lowered the glass. “Panels?”

I went to the window.

Earl’s truck sat in the yard with a flatbed behind it, twenty gate panels stacked and chained down. Tuck’s pickup was behind him. A stock trailer I didn’t recognize waited behind Tuck, backed halfway over the footbridge approach because nobody in this county had ever learned how to queue.

Earl stood beside the flatbed in his seed cap and canvas coat. August had already started warming the yard and Earl was dressed for October on principle.

Tuck leaned against his pickup in a sling, grinning like he’d personally invented mornings.

I opened the window.

“South side of the arena,” I called.

Earl squinted toward me. “Whole row?”

“Whole row.”

“You awake?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Good. Come unchain ‘em.”

Priya was already moving for the door.

I followed.

The morning hit warm and dry. Sage, dust, sun on old boards. The Madison Range stood hard against the western sky, already losing the soft gray of dawn. Earl had the flatbed chain halfway loose by the time we crossed the yard.

He looked at Priya.

Just looked.

There had been a day after the Courier piece when Earl couldn’t meet her eye. Now Earl took in Priya’s untied hair, my shirt under her flannel, and the fact that we’d come out of the bunkhouse together.

His eyebrows rose.

I pointed at him. “Choose life, Earl.”

“I didn’t say a thing.”

“You told the whole room without opening your mouth.”

“Can’t police my face.”

“Been trying for twenty years.”

Priya crossed her arms. “Why did you bring panels?”

Earl gave the chain a hard tug.

“Because you’re short on the south holding line.”

“The rental panels are due Thursday.”

“They pulled out.” Earl tossed the chain onto the flatbed. “Fellow’s cousin read the paper, decided four hundred people and livestock sounded risky.”

Priya’s face changed. The sleep left it. Her shoulders squared. “I need to call—”