When I arrive, Maggie is at the gate, waiting for me with two coffees.
Since I arrived, Maggie has never made me coffee. She makes lunch and brings me water but apart from that she's never offered me anything except instructions and criticism. I take the cup and wrap my hands around it.
"Thank you," I say. "You didn't have to do that."
"Don't make it a thing," she says. Then she looks me up and down. "Did you just roll in and out of bed like that or have you not slept at all?"
I look down at myself. The black dress. The sneakers. The exact outfit I wore last night. I know it looks silly and completely out of context here but I didn't have a choice.
"I forgot to wash one of my shorts," I say. "And the other pair wasn't dry yet."
Maggie frowns. "Wasn't dry from what?"
"From washing them in the shower. With shampoo."
She stares at me. "You wash your clothes in the shower."
"I don't have any other option. There's no washing machine at the motel and the nearest laundromat is in Cawley."
"Oh. I didn't realize you were —" She gestures at the dress. "I thought you had more clothes than this."
"I know what you're thinking," I say. "You're thinking, how does someone like me only have two pairs of shorts? Well, my parents' housekeeper went to my apartment to pack for me while I was in jail. And let's just say Irina's idea of practical doesn't quite match the reality of Duster. Most of what she packed is either too warm or too dressy. I don't own that many casual clothes to begin with and even Irina couldn't have imagined —" I wave my hand at the farm, the dust, the pig barn, the general situation. "This."
Maggie raises her brows. "Okay, that's not practical. I honestly hadn't considered the laundry situation." She takes a sip of her coffee. "Bring your dirty clothes tomorrow morning. You can put a load in my machine first thing and hang them on the line outside. By the time you're done for the day, they'll be dry."
I blink. It's such a simple offer. A washing machine and a clothesline. "Thank you," I say. "That would be — thank you." I turn toward the pig barn because that's where I go in the mornings. "Right well, I'll get started."
"Not today," Maggie says. "I'll do the barn today. Luis needs more help with the fence, he's hoping to get it finished before lunch." She glances at my dress again. "Do you want to borrow something to wear? I've got spare shorts and T-shirts. We're about the same size."
"No, it's fine." I tug at my dress. It's already stained so it really doesn't matter at this point.
"Suit yourself," Maggie says, and heads toward the chicken coop.
I hear the wheelbarrow coming around the side of the toolshed with a rhythmic squeaking — the wheel slightly offcenter, Luis behind it, pushing a load of tools. Posts, wire, pliers, a hammer, a box of staples, and work gloves.
He stops when he sees me. His eyes go from my face to the dress to the sneakers and back to my face. "Morning, Sloane," he says. "Ready to continue with that fence?"
"Ready."
He nods and pushes the wheelbarrow past me. I follow him toward the fence line along the road. The section we're working on is the part I hit — the stretch where the wooden posts splintered and Maggie patched it with whatever she had. Up close in daylight, the rushed repair job looks desperate, with cable ties holding wire to posts that aren't straight.
I did this.
We pick up where we left off yesterday. Luis hands me the gloves and we fall into a rhythm — he cuts, I hold, he pulls, I stack.
"How long have you been volunteering here?" I ask, holding the fence taut while he works a staple free.
"Twelve years."
"Twelve years. Wow. Twice a week?"
"Sometimes more. Four days when Gloria was running it. We go way back. She and my wife were friends first, and then I started helping out after I retired." He moves down to the next staple. "Hold that steady."
I adjust my grip. "Gloria is Maggie's mother?"
"That's right. She started this place from nothing. Just a few acres and a handful of animals nobody wanted. Built it up over twenty years. She still helps with the books, the admin, the fundraising — that side of things. But the physical work got too much for her a few years back. She met a man in Cawley — Walt, good guy, retired teacher — and she moved in with him. She comes by a few times a week to check in, make sure Maggie hasn't run herself into the ground." He pulls a post free andtosses it onto the pile. "She's on vacation at the moment, up in Oregon. But she'll be back soon so you'll meet her."
"Great," I say. "I'm sure she's dying to meet the woman who drove through her life's work."
