Loreda followed her mother out to the barn.

Working together, they rolled a big black cauldron across the hard dirt yard and set it up. Mom knelt beside the three-legged pot and built a fire.

As flames took hold and licked upward, Mom said, “Start hauling water.”

Loreda said nothing, just grabbed a pair of buckets and headed off. When she got back, Grandma was with Mom, watching the fire.

“We should have laid pipe,” Grandma said. “Back when times were good.”

“You know what they say about hindsight,” was Mom’s reply.

“Instead, we bought more land, a new truck, and a thresher. No wonder God is smiting us. Fools,” Grandma said.

“Keep jawing,” Loreda said. “I can handle all the water myself.”

Grandma smacked her lightly in the back of the head. “Basta. Go.”

By the time the cauldron had enough water in it, Loreda’s neck ached, her knees hurt, and the dang heat was giving her a headache. She tugged the bandanna at her throat free and used it to blot her cheeks.

When the water began to boil, Grandma scraped lard into the pot and then carefully poured in the lye. The hot, humid air instantly turned toxic. Mom coughed and covered her mouth and nose.

The heat headache intensified behind Loreda’s eyes. The blue of the horizon became hard to look at without blinking. She stared instead at the field of dead potatoes; the empty windmill platform made her miss her daddy, an emotion she clamped down quickly. She was done missing her dad. Good riddance, she thought (or tried to).

Mom stood at the pot, stirring the mixture of lye, grease, and water with a long, pointed stick until it was the right consistency.

Making soap to sell. As if soap would save them, as if it would make them enough money to feed them all this winter.

Mom ladled the soap into wooden molds while Grandma kicked sand on the fire to extinguish it.

“Loreda, help me carry these trays to the root cellar,” Mom said.

Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and headed back to the house.

Loreda knew that as soon as the cauldron was cool they’d have to roll it back to the barn, and the thought of it made her want to scream in frustration. Instead, she grabbed a tray full of unset soap and followed her mother down into the dark, relative cool of the root cellar.

Empty shelves.

After years without a wheat harvest or much of a garden, they’d been living on the bounty of better years, but those supplies were going fast.

She and Mom exchanged a look, but neither of them spoke. There was no comfort in pointing out their lack of food supplies.

Loreda followed Mom back out into the heat. She was about to ask for a glass of water when she heard a strange sound. She stopped, listened. “Do you hear that?”

It was coming from the barn.

Mom headed toward the barn, opening the barn door in a giant sweep of creaking wood.

Loreda followed her inside.

Milo lay on his side, his sunken belly wheezing up and down as he tried to breathe. Dirty mucus slid from his nostrils, pooling on the ground.

Grandpa knelt beside the horse, stroking his damp neck.

“What’s wrong with him?” Loreda asked.

“He collapsed,” Grandpa said. “I was leading him out of his stall to water.”

“Go to the house, Loreda,” Mom said. She walked over to Grandpa, dragged a milking stool toward him, and sat down. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I got to shoot him, Elsa. He’s suffering. The poor boy gave us his all.”

Loreda stared at Milo, thinking, No. So many of her good memories included Milo. . . .

She remembered when Daddy taught her to ride on this old gelding. He’ll take care of you, Lolo, trust him. Don’t be afraid.

Loreda remembered Daddy swinging her up into the saddle, and Mom saying, Isn’t she too little yet? And Daddy smiling. Not my Lolo. She can do anything.

Up on Milo’s back, Loreda had conquered fear for the first time. I did it, Daddy!

It had been one of the best days of Loreda’s life. She’d gone from a walk to a trot in one day, and Daddy had been so proud.

For years afterward, Milo had been her best friend on this vast farm. He followed her around like a puppy, nibbling at her shoulder, bumping her for carrots.

And now he’d fallen.

“Don’t just sit there, do something,” Loreda said, her eyes burning with tears. “He’s suffering.”

“I failed at all of it,” Grandpa said.

“You didn’t fail,” Mom answered. “The land failed you.”

“The government man said we did it to ourselves with greed and bad farming. If I’m a bad farmer, I got nothing, Elsa.”

Milo shuddered, wheezed, made a low, desperate moan of pain, and kicked out his front legs.

Loreda walked dully to the workbench and picked up her grandfather’s Colt revolver. She checked the chamber, closed it with a snap, and returned to Milo, who wheezed and snorted at her touch.

She saw the pain in his eyes, the muddy mucus in his nostrils as she stroked his damp neck. “I love you, boy,” she said. Tears blinded her, blurred his beloved face. “You gave us everything you had. I should have spent more time with you. I’m sorry.”

“Loreda, no,” Grandpa said. “That ain’t—”

Loreda put the muzzle of the pistol to the gelding’s head and pulled the trigger. The gunshot cracked loudly.