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Oliver pockets his phone as I take mine out to call Joe Sprague. I still don’t like dealing with the man. I’m worried, too, what the weed-smoking cyclists will think of his right-wing bumper stickers. I don’t have much choice, though. After I explain the situation, a sleepy-sounding Joe says he’ll be right over. In the meantime, the campers and I head down to the lower barn, save for one who stays behind with the sheep. No one knows what they’re doing, but after some bungled attempts, we manage to hook enough panels together to form a funnel leading into the sheep pens.

A horn honk tells us Joe has arrived. We troop up to the driveway and help him hitch the trailer to his truck. The sheep scramble and bleat as Joe hauls them across my lawn, his truck’s tires leaving muddy ruts in the grass. With the trailer backed as close to the barn as he can get it, Joe directs the rest of us to pivot the fence panels behind the sheep as they exit.

“Get ready now.” Joe drops the trailer’s ramp. The desperate sheep leap down, bleating frantically.

“Bring that round, now, and hurry!” Joe calls out. Oliver and I lift one end of a fence panel and swing it across to meet another panel maneuvered by a pair of cyclists. In a matter of moments, the sheep are enclosed in a small area of lush grass with access to the pens behind them. The disgruntled cat slinks out of the barn, her narrowed eyes shooting death rays at the sheep.

“What happens now?” I ask.

“They’ll need a visit from the vet, no doubt.” Joe takes off his Carhartt cap and scratches his scalp. “How’d you say they got here again?” He shakes his head as I show him the note. “Lots of folks are struggling, but leaving them animals in the night seems to me a coward’s way out.”

“We’ll take it from here, Joe,” I say, bristling at his up-by-the-bootstraps tone. “Thanks for coming to the rescue.”

“I hate for any animal to be in distress. Didn’t even wait for Nancy to get the coffee on before I came over.” He detaches the hitch, then points to the reeking trailer, which is caked in stomped-on sheep shit. “Make sure you disinfect that thing before you use it to haul hay. You’ll have to get a hitch installed on that van of yours, though if you ask me, you’d be better off trading it in for a pickup.”

The mere suggestion of trading away David’s van is infuriating. “Oh, I don’t intend to keep them,” I say.

Joe shrugs. “Short of having them processed, I don’t know who you think is gonna take them off your hands, but hey, this is your problem now.”

With the sheep contained and contentedly munching on grass, everyone drifts back toward the house. The campers take turns washing up at the hose spigot while Oliver makes a fresh round of coffees. Upstairs, I splash cold water on my face before putting on a sports bra under a clean shirt and trading my leggings for jeans. I come downstairs to find Aisha on the side porch, sipping a latte. The campers are breaking down their tents and packing their panniers, ready to resume touring. Oliver’s stretched out on the ground, leaning back on one elbow, his chill restored after the excitement of the morning.

“Gramma woke me up right after you called,” Aisha says, yawning. “She went down to the barn to see the sheep. As long as I’m here, I guess I’ll put in my hours now, if you don’t mind being on your own this afternoon?”

“That’s fine, Aisha. Oliver’s here if I need anything.”

“Actually, Auds, I’m taking off today.” Oliver crosses his ankles and looks at me with sleepy eyes. “One of the campers hooked me up with a gig leading bike tours through Vermont. Sorry for the short notice, but I’ll be going after this.” He raises his mug in a lazy salute. “It’s been real.”

I’m annoyed at Oliver’s nonchalance, but what can I say? It’s not like I’m paying him—nor can I afford to. And now I’ve got a flock of abandoned sheep to worry about on top of making espresso drinks and running the bookshop. On my way down to the barn, I send Wren a text asking him to come help out.

“Audrey, honey, there you are.” Lucinda stands tall among the humps of dirty wool on spindly legs. She lets herself out of the enclosure looking every bit the farmer with rubber boots that come up to her knees and yellow work gloves flopping from her back pocket. “Explain to me again how these sheep got here?”

I tell her the story. Lucinda frowns. “I know all about hard times, but it’s not right to dump your problems on someone else without so much as asking. I certainly never intended for my video to have this result.”

“I know that, Lucinda. I’m glad you’re here now. I don’t know the first thing about sheep.”

“Well, these here look like they’re Dorsets, which tells me those people who dropped them off weren’t clear on what they were doing. It seems to me a homesteader who raises sheep for meat ought to choose a hair breed. If it was milk they were after, though, they’d’ve been better off with Friesians or Lacaunes. If it was a spinner’s flock they were after, they’d have taken better care of the fleece. The state these are in, the wool’s hardly worth what it would cost to have them sheared, and they’re all months overdue for shearing. Have you called a veterinarian yet?”

I shake my head. “This all just happened.”

“I know it’s been a hectic morning, Audrey, but look here.” Lucinda lets herself back into the fenced area and approaches one of the more docile sheep. Grabbing its head, she presses her thumb under its eye, exposing the membrane. “See how white this is? The membrane in a healthy animal ought to be deep red. This sheep has anemia, from worms. It’s safe to assume they’re all infected. If you don’t want a pile of dead animals on your hands, you’ve got to get them treated immediately.”

“You’re telling me they could die?” I ask, horrified.

“Only if they’re not treated,” Lucinda says, coming out of the enclosure. “I’d consider keeping them if I were you, Audrey. Healthy sheep will pretty much take care of themselves, as long as you rotate their grazing area. Underfed as these are, I expect they’ll eat this patch of grass down to dirt in a couple of days.”

“Underfed? But some of them are so round.”

“You can blame that on him.” Lucinda points at the largest sheep—a ram, I see now, with woolly testicles sagging halfway down his hind legs. “Looks like a couple of those ewes will be lambing any day now. Off-season breeding is another clue those so-called homesteaders were in over their heads.”

I’m digesting this horrible news when the word “homestead” clicks into place. I scroll through my recent calls until I find a 518 number from the first of June. I’m worried it’s too early for the local representative of the agricultural extension to be on the job, but Sam Rensselaer answers on the first ring.

“Hey, Audrey, what’s up?”

“Yeah, hi, it’s Audrey Beacon,” I say unnecessarily, surprised that Sam’s saved my name and number. “Listen, someone left a trailer full of sick sheep in my driveway last night. My neighbor helped us move them to the barn but now my friend says they could die if they don’t see a vet. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, Sam.”

“Wow. Okay. Well, I’ve got an appointment with a farmer out by Warrensburg this morning but I’ll swing by your place when I’m done, probably around noon? In the meantime, I’ll call a vet I know to come check them out.”

The tension drains from my body. “Thanks, Sam, really.”