It's just past sunset, and something is watching Martin herd his charges home from under the long eaves of a goat barn, too many eyes reflecting the blue light of dusk. Some stares, yearning, covetous.

He misses his own charges with a heat that presses uncomfortably outwards in his chest, and drapes himself over a trio of hay bales, chin resting on three crossed arms as he simply stares, as if that could feed the hollow space inside.