Still, neither Daniel nor I knew anything serious about agriculture.
Then we brought Lucy out in March to begin sorting Dad’s belongings.
She disappeared for twenty minutes.
I found her sitting beneath one of the apple trees with Sunny.
She was holding an old metal lunchbox Dad used to keep fishing hooks in.
Inside she had collected small things.
A red-handled screwdriver.
One of Dad’s pocketknives, closed.
Three old coins.
A photograph of me at twelve.
And a tiny wooden horse Dad carved for her.
When I approached, Lucy asked:
“Are we selling Grandpa’s house?”
I sat beside her.
“Probably.”
Her eyes dropped.
“Why?”
“Because we live somewhere else.”
“We could live here.”
“Dad works in Harrisburg.”
“He works from his computer half the time.”
Children are dangerous negotiators because they observe every loophole.
I smiled.
“It’s more complicated.”
“Do you want to sell it?”
That question stayed with me.
Did I?
Not should we.
Not can we afford it.
Do you want to?
I looked across the orchard.
Most branches were still bare.
Snow remained in shaded patches.
The barn leaned slightly.
The porch needed paint.
Everything smelled like wet leaves and wood smoke and childhood.
“No.”
I admitted.
“I don’t.”
Six months later, we moved in.
Daniel kept his job and drove into Harrisburg twice a week.
I worked remotely as a medical billing coordinator.
Lucy transferred to Cross Creek Elementary.
Sunny became a farm dog overnight.
Or at least he believed he did.
He patrolled the property.
Chased squirrels.
Rolled in things no civilized creature should roll in.
Barked at deer.
Discovered the pond.
Then discovered that being wet from the pond qualified him to enter the house only after an argument.
He loved every inch of the place.
Especially Lucy.
Their bond had always been strong.
It became something else on the farm.
Lucy had more freedom there.
She rode her bicycle along the lane.
Built forts near the barn.
Collected feathers.
Picked blackberries.
Climbed trees lower than Daniel preferred.
Sunny went everywhere.
If Lucy left the porch, Sunny stood.
If she walked toward the barn, Sunny followed.
If she crossed the yard, his head came up.
He was not trained as a protection dog.
He was a family pet.
But he seemed to have made himself responsible for her.
The orchard sat behind the barn, sloping slightly toward a tree line.
A gravel farm road curved around its western edge.
Beyond the last apple trees, the land dropped toward a shallow creek.
Dad had warned me about that area when I was young.
“Stay away after heavy rain.”
He would say.
I assumed he meant the creek.
The ground became muddy.
Banks could be slippery.
Nothing unusual.
The first strange incident with Sunny happened in September.
Lucy had been living at the farm about six weeks.
She wanted apples.
Most of the old trees produced badly, but three still gave surprisingly good fruit.
Dad had called one “the yellow tree.”
No idea what variety.
The apples were small, tart, and green-gold.
Lucy carried a canvas bag.
Sunny followed.
I watched from the kitchen window.
She picked two apples.
Then wandered farther toward the lower orchard.
Sunny stopped.
Lucy kept walking.
Sunny barked.
Once.
Lucy turned around.
I could not hear what she said.
Probably:
“Come on.”
Sunny did not.
Lucy took another five steps.
He ran toward her.
Circled in front.
Lucy went around.
Sunny blocked again.