Putting the stool under his left arm, he carried the heavy pail carefully, so none of the milk would slop out.
“Mighty late with the milking, aren’t you, son?” It was the only thing his father said directly to him all evening.
The next morning he almost didn’t get up at the sound of the pickup.
He could feel, even before he came fully awake, how tired he still was.
But May Belle was grinning at him, propped up on one elbow.
“Ain’t ’cha gonna run?” she asked. “No,” he said, shoving the sheet away. “I’m gonna fly.”
Because he was more tired than usual, he had to push himself harder.
He pretended that Wayne Pettis was there, just ahead of him, and he had to keep up.
His feet pounded the uneven ground, and he thrashed his arms harder and harder.
He’d catch him. “Watch out, Wayne Pettis,” he said between his teeth. “I’ll get you. You can’t beat me.”
“If you’re so afraid of the cow,” the voice said, “why don’t you just climb the fence?”
He paused in midair like a stop-action TV shot and turned, almost losing his balance,
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