His boots were still damp in the morning when James Cullock forced his feet into them and let the dogs into the yard.
The concrete was damp from rain but that wasn’t the water creeping across what was left of his pasture. He shook his head and retreated to the kitchen where the kettle boiled his wife clattered about with mugs.
Greg would be there in a few hours with the trailer, reading to head north to a friend of a friend three counties up, willing to give them his spare fodder. God knows what James would do for feed when that was gone but it would keep what was left of his livestock fed for now.