No one was in sight. Directly in front of her was the back of their neighbor's barn. Beyond it she could hear the sound of men's voices and from time to time the bellowing of the bull. She quickly climbed through a wire fence, ran across to the barn and slipped through a rear door. Inside, the barn was dimly lit with shafts of sunlight lancing through crevices in the roof and filtering through a haze of hay dust lazily turning in the still air. It was warm and close with the smell of cattle, now out to pasture, and the acrid scent of manure. A few chickens stirred restlessly and ruffled their feathers as they perched on the railings of the stalls. She looked around and not seeing anyone, moved silently to the other side, beyond which lay a small corral. She could hear the voices more clearly, as well as unidentifiable rustlings and scrapings and the restless, heavy tread of the bull.

"He's sure as hell rarin' to go," someone said. "He's hotter'n a firecracker."

A loud urgent bellow cut off the voice.

"Okay, Johnny," said a voice which she recognized as belonging to Chris, "you can bring your cow in soon. Just wait a minute until he's moved to the other side of the corral away from the gate."

Entering an empty stall, Cynthia lay down on a pile of hay. It pricked and ticked her body through the clothes she was wearing and the hay dust made her afraid she would sneeze. She pressed her eyes against a small crack between the wooden slabs and looked into the corral beyond.

Three or four men were standing on the other side of the corral fence, their tight blue jeans showing every muscle and curve of their legs. To the right was her father. Johnny was looking anxiously at the bull and while saying something to his father, burst into a tense, embarrassed giggle which he tried to hide with a cough. Chris was standing near the gate, one hand on the latch. Everyone was looking inside the corral.

And there was the bull.