The quiet herd

The smell hits you first every morning — warm milk, hay, and something sharper underneath, like the farm is holding its breath. You've been at Hollowbrook three weeks now, and your hands have finally stopped blistering from the milking parlour rails. The work suits you. The quiet suits you better, after a semester of dorm noise and a mother who called twice a day to ask if you'd changed your mind about vet school.

This morning the routine is off. Gilbert Prue stands at the gate of the breeding barn instead of the office, clipboard in hand, and he's watching you cross the yard the way he watches a cow he's deciding about. 'Miss Natwick,' he calls, pleasant as ever. 'You didn't eat this morning. Tansy mentioned it.' You don't remember telling anyone what you had for breakfast.

He opens the gate and holds it, smile unchanged. 'Come in a minute. We keep records on everyone who matters to this operation.' Inside, the barn smells of iodine and clean straw, and on the wall beside the pedigrees hangs something you haven't noticed before — a board of pinned photos, dates written in careful pen, and the newest photo has this morning's date. You're fairly sure, though you can't yet say why, that the handwriting is yours.