Page 56 of Best Year Ever

“Thanks for that,” I say, hoping she’ll do it again.

She’s standing so close. “In your professional opinion, are we in any danger of an outbreak?” she asks.

I nod. “Epidemic proportions. Be prepared for the World Health Organization’s next statement. It will most likely include a warning against cheek strain from too much smiling. But I’m kind of hoping you can ignore the other people who are suffering from this widespread condition.”

She makes a shocked face. “You mean I should pretend the problem doesn’t exist? That doesn’t seem like best medical practice.”

“Maybe not, but since you’re not a doctor, you don’t have a responsibility to cure anybody.”

She nods in assent. “I still feel like there might be something I can do to help. I should definitely do no harm,” she says.

“Agreed. It’s a good general life policy. But you probably don’t need to take on the responsibility to heal everyone who falls for you.”

“Not even to apply bandages to knees? Kiss the scraped elbows?”

“Is it weird that I’m completely sure that won’t help reverse the crush?”

She shakes her head. “Honestly, I’ve never kissed anyone’s elbow, so I can’t say if it works or not.” The way she’s looking at me, I’m having a very hard time staying present in this silly conversation.

She goes up on her toes and puts her free hand around her mouth, directing her whisper right into my ear. Every nerve in my body is on high alert as she says, “I can try it now. See if it heals you.”

“I can’t believe even such an experimental treatment will help my condition. I’m incurable.”

She wrinkles up her nose. “Doesn’t that mean I’m killing you?”

Shaking my head, I wrap my free arm around her. “Nope. Just that I’m most likely stuck with this condition forever.”

“It’s chronic?” she asks, trying to hide her smile.

“Terminal,” I say.

“I can’t say I’m sorry to hear it,” she says.

An older man in overalls calls up to us from the floor below. “Do you have any questions about the animals?” he asks, gesturing to the pens of cows, goats, and sheep surrounding him on the barn floor.

“Huh. Will you look at that?” Sage says. “There’s a whole bunch of animals in here with us.”

She waves to the farmer. “They look very happy,” she calls down to him.

“You look pretty happy yourselves,” he says, waving back.

Sage splutters a laugh. She whispers to me, “I’m not that good at being subtle.”

I nod. “It’s an overrated skill, if you ask me.”

She grins at me and pulls on my hand. “Let’s see the rest.”

We make a quick circuit around the barnyard balcony and then go through a door and check out the processing floor. Tanks of all sizes, hoses, tables, stands, stoves, sinks, and fridges fill the room. Four people lean over vats and stir tanks and check gauges at different stations.

A woman in another of the dairy’s denim aprons stands in the balcony pointing out what each of the vats is for, explaining the jobs of each of the workers, and answering questions from the few other people watching the process.

I have so many questions, but I keep most of my attention focused on Sage. She’s amused and interested, but mostly she’s laughing at me.

“I had no idea you would be so into this whole farm-to-fridge thing,” she says. “If the doctor business gets old, maybe you can work here.”

I know she’s teasing, but I wonder if this is exactly the kind of thing I might love to do in retirement. Not that I’m actively planning retirement, and I’m certainly not going to bring something like that up to someone who is more than a decade younger than I am, but the thought’s planted. And I kind of like it.

We watch and listen for a few more minutes, and then Sage asks if I’ve seen enough.

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