““We’re going to see White Cow first,” Liam tells Gran. “I thought you probably would,” she says. She hands me some money. “This is for butter at the market. And these letters are to be mailed.” Outside it is cold and bright. It feels like frost on my nose. We walk down the length of the fence, looking for White Cow. “She’s not in the meadow,” says Liam. His breath comes out in puffs in the winter air. We open the gate and walk through the snow-covered grass to the barn. The barn is old and smel...ls like hay and the winter breath of all the animals that have lived there. We stop as we enter, both of us, because it is huge. The roof is so high, it reminds me of the picture of a cathedral I once saw in a book. There are stalls and many bales of hay and barrels with covers that hold grain. Parts of the floor are old wood, and our boots slip on the smoothness. Slices of light from the windows fall across the wood. “White Cow!” calls Liam suddenly. There is a shuffle of noise at the far end of the barn, and White Cow walks out of a stall.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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