Beau kicked at the hay pile a few times, then nodded. “It’s clear.”
“Of what?” Vin stood above him, on the ledge of the loft, a thick coil of soft rope in his hand, worn a bit from decades of hands. Several fat knots marked time along the length and the entire thing was looped several times over a scarred but solid-seeming crossbeam.
“Pitchforks. Cats. Snakes. Buckets. All the sorts of things you don’t want to land on when you jump into a haymow.”
“Snakes?”
“Honestly, Vin, haven’t you ever been outside before?”
“You didn’t say anything about snakes.”
“Pitchforks are worse, I promise.”
“It’s a wonder you survived to get to college.”
“Shall I come up and push?” Beau stared at him, hands on his hips. His hair, curly and golden, was the same color as the motes of chaff that fluttered a
