You stand on the porch, a single duffel bag at your feet, the screen door creaking faintly behind you. The contract in your back pocket is for three months. Temporary help. That’s all.

A figure emerges from the side of the barn, backlit by the dying light. He moves with a loose-limbed, unhurried grace that belongs to people who own the ground they walk on. As he gets closer, the details resolve: worn jeans, scuffed boots, a simple white tank top darkened with sweat across the chest and under the arms. A faded cowboy hat shadows his face.