"Eight years." She stops shovelling and leans on the fork. "Of this." She looks around the barn and through the open door at the yard, at the pigs sprawled in the sun.
"And you like it," she says. "Here, in Duster."
"I love it."
It's the way she says "Duster" — like the word itself is an insult. Like living here is something that needs explaining. Like anyone who chooses this life must be missing something — ambition, imagination, options.
"Yeah," I say with an edge to my voice. "In Duster."
"I didn't mean —"
"Not everyone grows up with a silver spoon, Sloane. Not everyone has a penthouse and a Porsche and a father who hands them a credit card. Some people live in LA. And some people live in Duster. And the people who live in Duster aren't herebecause they failed at something or because they couldn't make it somewhere better. They're here because this is their home and that's enough."
Sloane stops shovelling and looks at me. I know I should stop but I've been swallowing this and it's coming up now whether I want it to or not.
"You feel sorry for yourself after doing this for three days. You act like you've been sent to a labor camp. I've been doing this since I graduated college. Every morning, every evening, every holiday, every birthday. Rain, heat, doesn't matter. I muck out these pens and I fix these fences and I sit up all night with a sick animal and I drive an hour to the vet and I drive an hour back and then I start the morning feed even if I've only had two hours of sleep."
I'm gripping the pitchfork handle so hard my knuckles turn white.
"You want to know why I do it? Look out there." I point through the barn door. "You see Barbara? She spent four years in a factory farm. She'd never seen the sun until she came here. The first time I let her outside she just stood there. She didn't know what to do with space."
Sloane turns and looks at Barbara, who is lying in a mud wallow, covered in mud, one ear twitching at a fly.
"And Gerald." I point at the old pig farther down. "Gerald was found in a ditch by a highway. Someone dumped him there. He was emaciated and covered in sores and he was so scared of people that he wouldn't eat if anyone was near." My voice cracks. "And Dolly. Half blind, eleven years old, spent most of her life in a crate. She was on the highway after you crashed through the wall."
Sloane flinches. She drops her gaze and stares at the straw on the floor. I know she's trying not to cry and I don't care.
"These animals had horrible lives," I continue. "Every single one of them came from a place where they were hurt or neglected. And now they're here and they're happy. And I did that. In Duster. Without a credit card or a single person from your world giving a damn."
Sloane doesn't say anything for a long time, and I don't know what she's thinking. I don't know her and I don't want to know her.
"I wasn't making fun of your life," she says quietly.
"Yes you were."
"I was just — I don't get it. That's all. I don't understand how someone does this every day and doesn't go insane."
"Because it matters. That's how."
She doesn't reply to that. She picks up her pitchfork and goes back to the straw and I can tell she wants to say more but she's smart enough to know this isn't the moment. Good. She's learning something, even if it's just when to shut up.
13
SLOANE
The Watering Hole has a pool table, a jukebox, a bar with eight stools, and a mounted deer head on the wall. There are about fifteen people here, mostly men in jeans and work boots, most of them holding bottles of beer. A few women at a corner table are sharing a pitcher of something. The TV above the bar is showing a baseball game with the sound off and the whole place smells like spilled beer and sweat.
I'm sitting at a small table by the wall with a glass of white wine that is marginally better than the bottle from the general store. I'm wearing a black cocktail dress, the only one Irina packed, and sneakers, because I put on heels at the motel and made it three steps before my feet staged a revolt. They're swollen and sore from standing all day. But nothing I wear in Duster matters. No one here is looking at my outfit for style advice.
The motel room was making me lose my mind so I came here. The fridge was vibrating on the floor again and the walls were closing in on me. I figured it would be best to get out before I started talking to the furniture. The diner was out ofthe question after the phone incident, which left The Watering Hole. I've walked past every day and never considered entering because it looked shady but desperation took over.
A few heads turned when I walked in. The bartender — a thick-necked man with a gray beard — looked at me for a beat too long. The women at the corner table glanced over and one of them leaned in to whisper something to the others. I ordered my wine and took my table and sat down, ignoring their stares.
I call Sita and I'm grateful when she picks up.
"Sloane! Oh my god. Finally. Are you okay? How is it? You're in that little town, right?"
"Yeah. Duster. It's —" I lower my voice and turn toward the wall. "It's horrible, Sita. It really should be called Dustbin."
