As the sky turned a deep, bruised purple, Leo felt a gentle nudge. Barnaby was standing now, his head cocked toward the farmhouse where a single yellow light had just flickered on in the kitchen window. It was the signal.
The fence at the edge of Miller’s Farm was more than just a boundary; for young Leo, it was a grandstand. Every afternoon, as the sun began its slow dip toward the horizon, Leo would climb the weathered cedar rails, his boots dangling over the tall, un-mowed grass. 5429006_035.jpg
Beside him, always, was Barnaby. Barnaby was a Golden Retriever who seemed to have been spun from the very sunlight they sat in. He didn't climb the fence—he was far too dignified for that—but he would lean his heavy, warm shoulder against Leo’s leg, a silent anchor in a world that felt too big for a seven-year-old. As the sky turned a deep, bruised purple,