It’s quieter than I expected — the motor of the kneading machine. I hope it makes good bread and that my friend and I can agree on a price. He needs the money, and I hope to avoid kneading for 15-minute stretches. So I’ve mixed up the dough, plugged the thing in, set the timer, and now am waiting for it to do its job before I set the dough to rise and head outside to have another look at the sick calf.

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So I’m in the shop with Loverboy and look out the window to see his sister-in-law pull up in her little red car with Zander and Beckster. Soon they are standing on the other side of a car that Pa is working on, and little Beckster steps out from behind the car and spots me and I hear this excited intake of breath, followed immediately by a delighted “KAffeeeee!” and she comes running toward me with a big smile on her face. From that moment on, I have a sidekick. And hey, who can resist a child’s happy attention.

We amble over to the corrals to stand in the cold sunshine and watch the young calves for a while. They are curious about Beckster and come over to look at her and stick their wet pink tongues up their nostrils. The one born yesterday is still wobbly on her legs but kicking the hind ones in the air anyway. I saw her not a half-hour after she was born, struggling to stand up and then, successful, searching for her mother’s teats. Calves are no sooner born than they are getting up and looking for food. Talk about survival instinct.

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L’s driven off. We hated saying goodbye to each other, knowing it will be for an entire week. But he’s gotta be looking forward to spending such a chunk of time with his son, and I’m glad for that. It doesn’t happen very often, and L loves that boy to distraction.

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Often when the lamp goes out at night, after I’ve read a little and usually when L is already asleep at my side, there is an uncomfortable sensation for the first minute or so. It doesn’t last long, but I have identified it as fear. It is an awareness that there is no guarantee of tomorrow. I am viscerally cognizant of my mortality and that of those I love.