He didn’t like the chickens, the way they smelled or sounded, or the evil glint in their eyes when he went in to gather eggs. But he liked the eggs just fine, whether they were cooked up for breakfast or stirred into batter and dough for cakes and cookies.

There were always cookies in his grandmother’s big glass jar.

He didn’t like when people came to visit, or he rode into town with his grandparents, the way they’d size him up and say things like, So, this is Missy’s boy! (his mother, christened Michelle, went by Chelle in New York). And they’d say how he was the spitting image of his grandfather. Who was old.

He liked seeing the Chance truck ramble toward the farmhouse, even if Lil was a girl.

She played ball, and didn’t spend all her time giggling like a lot of the girls he knew. She didn’t listen to New Kids on the Block all the time and make girly eyes over them. That was a plus.

She did better on a horse than he did, but she didn’t rag on him about it. Much. After a while, it wasn’t like hanging out with a girl. It was just hanging out with Lil.

And one week-not two-after the talk at the kitchen table, a brand-new TV showed up in the parlor.

“No point in waiting,” his grandmother said. “You held up your end just fine. I’m proud of you.”

In all of his life, he couldn’t remember anyone being proud of him, or saying so, just because he’d tried.

Once he’d been judged good enough, he and Lil were allowed to ride, as long as they stayed in the fields, within sight of the house.

“Well?” Lil asked as they walked the horses through the grass.

“What?”

“Is it stupid?”

“Maybe it’s not. She’s pretty cool.” He patted Dottie’s neck. “She likes apples.”

“I wish they’d let us ride up into the hills, really see stuff. I can only go with one of my parents. Except…” She looked around, as if to check for cocked ears. “I snuck out one morning, before sunrise. I tried to track the cougar.”