They learned quickly that the farm did not care who they were in the city. Cassandra’s manicure met the chicken coop; Jennifer’s white sneakers met the irrigation ditch; Greg’s protein schedule met a wheelbarrow with a flat tire. By dusk, the house smelled of wet wool and liniment instead of eucalyptus candles, and no one asked for the Wi‑Fi password again. Kyle, who’d arrived apologizing for his soft hands, started calling out which clouds meant rain and which meant get the tarps now. Ben kept pretending he was just “helping out,” but every time his phone buzzed on the counter and he didn’t move, another thread between his old life and this one loosened. When Margaret finally let him clean the mud from her hoof without trying to head‑butt him into next week, the rest of them cheered like he’d won a championship. He laughed, startled by his own pride, then glanced at me as if he’d been caught wanting something he didn’t yet have words for. The mountains watched, indifferent, while the farm kept pulling at their carefully arranged liv… Continues…