“Not now, Jasper,” I say.
I grab a pitchfork. I start mucking the stall. I move with a frantic energy, stabbing the hay, throwing it into the pile.
The sweat starts to roll down my back. My muscles burn.
I hear footsteps behind me. Tex.
He doesn’t speak. He just grabs a shovel and starts scooping the soiled bedding into a wheelbarrow.
We work in silence. The only sounds are the scrape of metal and the low breathing of the calves.
Twenty minutes pass.
More footsteps.
I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. I can smell him. The pine smoke. The leather.
The Alpha scent that has always meant safety, and now means exposure.
Billy joins us. He doesn’t say anything about the conversation. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t punch me.
He just grabs a brush and starts grooming one of the heifers.
We work. The three of us. Side by side.
The silence is heavy, but it’s not hostile. It’s the silence of men who have been brothers for too long to let a fight—no matter how big—tear them apart permanently.
We are pack. We are blood. We are stuck with each other.
I focus on the motion. Lift. Toss. Lift. Toss.
My mind races. What happens now? Does Billy hate me? Does Sedona think I’m a creep?
I don’t know. I can’t think about it. If I do, I’ll spiral.
So I work until my arms shake.
The sun sets. The sky turns a deep, bruised purple.
“Seth. Tex. Billy.”
I stop. I lean on the pitchfork, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
Dr. Petrova and Dr. Miles are standing at the gate of the pen. They’re out of their hazmat suits, wearing jeans and jackets. They look tired but determined.
Dr. Miles is holding a clipboard. His face is serious.
“We need to talk,” he says.
Billy drops the brush. He walks over. Tex and I follow.
“Is it bad?” Billy asks.
“No,” Dr. Petrova says. “Actually, it’s good. We have the results.”
I hold my breath.
Dr. Miles looks down at his notes. “We’ve been coordinating with the CDC lab in Austin and our team here. We ran a full panel on the deceased calf, the live cattle, and the human blood samples we took today.”
