"Follow me," I say, walking toward the pig pens. "We'll get you some sunscreen later. You'll need it. But your first job is inside."
"Oh. Okay. Good." She shows a hint of relief but figures it out about halfway there. "When you said inside," she says, "I assumed you meant inside a building."
"This is a building. The pigs like to be outside but they come in for shade and to sleep. Which is why it needs to be clean."
We walk in and Sloane takes a step back. Her hand goes to her mouth, her eyes water, and she makes a sound that's somewhere between a gag and a whimper.
"You'll get used to the smell," I say. And then, because I can't resist, I add, "This is the building you destroyed. Do you recognize it?"
Dolly has followed us from the gate. She does that — wherever I go, Dolly goes, pressing her snout against the back of my leg like she's checking I'm still there. She trots past me now and heads straight for Sloane and pushes her snout against Sloane's bare calf.
Sloane screams. She stumbles backward, almost tripping over her own feet, eyeing Dolly like she's just been approached by a bear.
"For god's sake," I say. "Don't scream. You'll scare her. These animals have been through enough without you shrieking every time one of them comes near you."
I crouch down next to Dolly and put my arm around her. She leans into me with her full weight against my side, her snout resting on my knee. I scratch behind her ear and she closes her eyes.
Sloane has pressed herself against the wall, like she's never been that close to an animal that wasn't a labradoodle.
"She was just sniffing you. That's what pigs do. It's how they learn about things. She was saying hello."
Sloane is still frozen. "With her nose. On my leg."
"Would you prefer a handshake?"
She doesn't answer. She's watching me stroke Dolly with a look of utter shock and disgust.
I stand up and Dolly waddles off toward the yard, satisfied that she's assessed the new arrival.
"So, this is the pig barn," I say. "Fourteen pigs use this space. They need clean, dry bedding. That means every morning, the old straw comes out, the floor gets swept, and fresh straw goes down. The manure goes to the compost heap, which is behind the feed store. Wheelbarrow's by the door. Pitchfork's on the wall. Broom's in the corner."
Sloane looks at the straw and the manure and the pitchfork and then she looks at me.
"Every day?" she asks.
"Every day."
9
SLOANE
The shower is lukewarm at best and the water pressure is what I'd describe as aggressive dripping, but I stand under it for twenty minutes anyway. It's the only place in Duster that gives me a little comfort.
My arms are shaking from shoveling, my lower back has a deep, hot ache that pulses when I bend, and my hands are raw with a blister forming on my right palm from the pitchfork. I also have sunburn from the walk to the farm and my nails are chipped. Every single one of them, destroyed in a single day. There's not a salon within fifty miles of here that could fix them.
At least I have two days a week off so I can go back to LA and sleep in my own bed, get pampered and eat nice food. The promise of forty-eight hours of normalcy every week is the only thing keeping me from lying down on this bathroom floor and not getting up.
I smell my arm. Soap. Good. No more pig manure and straw and sweat. Maggie doesn't seem to notice the smell. She moves through it like it's normal.
Checking the bathroom and the dresser drawers, I look for a hairdryer, but there's nothing. Irina hasn't packed one becausewhy would she? Every hotel has a hair dryer bolted to the wall and she probably assumed wherever I was staying would have the basics. The Dusty Rose Motel does not have the basics. All it has is a Bible and a grudge against modernity.
She hasn't packed slippers either, which means I'm walking barefoot on a carpet that feels like it hasn't been deep-cleaned since the building was erected. It's slightly sticky near the bed and I don't want to know why. I curl my toes and try not to think about it.
I towel my hair as dry as I can and look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My face is pink. My nose is peeling. There are dark circles under my eyes and my lips are dry. I decide it doesn't matter how I look. Nothing matters in Duster. What I really want to do is stay in this room and cry, but I need food.
I had soup and bread for lunch, which Maggie served at a table on the porch without ceremony or conversation. Some kind of vegetable thing with lentils. But that was six hours ago and I've burned more calories today than I normally burn in a week. What I really want — what I would give anything for right now — is a huge sushi platter. Delicious, clean sushi, and a cold glass of Chablis. That's what I deserve after today.
But I'm in Duster and they don't deliver here, so the diner it is.
