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I take his word for it, pouring myself a cup before picking up my fork.
"So…what's my first assignment today, boss?"
"You're going to muck out the horse stalls, disinfect them, and spread fresh hay," he says. "The manure gets wheelbarrowed to the composting area. There are ten stalls total in the main stable, and you need to be finished by six p.m., before the horses come back. Think you can handle that?"
I can see it in his eyes—he's expecting me to balk.
I can't deny the idea of cleaning horseshit makes my stomach churn a little... but I'm not giving him the satisfaction.
I do some quick math:
It's nine in the morning now, so that gives me exactly nine hours. That's less than an hour per stall.
If I work hard, I can probably do one in about forty-five minutes.
Ten stalls would take 450 minutes—seven and a half hours.
I've got nine hours.
It'll be hard work... but it's doable. Even leaves a little time for breaks.
I shovel some bacon into my mouth, grin up at him, and say, "Sure, boss. No problem."
"I want more milk, Daddy," Grace says, pointing to her glass.
The milk happens to be closest to me, so I pick it up and hand it to Lennon.
"Here you go."
He takes it without a 'thank you' and without making eye contact—without even acknowledging my presence, indeed.
I narrow my eyes.
Okay, asshole. Now you're really pissing me off.
Here's the one saving grace about shoveling horse shit for hours: after the first hour, you stop smelling it. Truly.
The first time I walked in here with Dean, the smell was so overpowering I thought I might pass out. It only got worse as he showed me the ropes, and I had to fight to hide my reaction so he couldn't give me a smug, 'I told you so' look.
I don't know what these horses have been eating, but their stench is criminal.
Still, I tough it out. I focus on shoveling, cleaning, disinfecting—not thinking.
By the third hour, the routine actually becomes... soothing.
Dean said he'll introduce me to the other hands this evening and we'll discuss how to make use of the remainder of my time here.
So, when I hear the stable door creak open, I straighten, ready to introduce myself.
But it's not one of the hands. It's a familiar figure, turning the corner with a wide, cocky grin then standing right there in the stable entrance, leaning against a hitching post.
"Oh. It's only you," I say, and turn back to my sweeping.
"Ouch," he says, but he doesn't sound in the least offended. "I came to see if you needed any help."
"No, I got it."
"You sure about that?"