Seven Days at Hawthorne Farm: Day 1
Coach had called it “useful work.”
Trey called it punishment with livestock.
The car disappeared down the narrow country lane behind him, leaving Trey standing beside two bags, one backpack, and a battered wooden sign that read:
Beyond it stretched what looked like half of England.
Green fields rolled toward distant hills beneath a pale blue sky. Stone walls divided the land into uneven sections. Sheep dotted one hillside. Somewhere nearby, a tractor coughed into life. A weathered farmhouse stood at the end of a gravel drive with several barns scattered behind it.
And, judging by the signal on his phone, barely civilization.
Trey stared at the single bar in the corner of the screen.
“You have got to be joking.”
Coach had been very pleased with himself when he'd announced the arrangement.
“Something different,” Coach had said.
Somewhere Trey can't cause trouble.
Trey slung the backpack over one shoulder and started down the drive.
The gravel was still damp from rain, and within thirty seconds a passing tractor sprayed enough muddy water across his boots to make him stop dead.
A dog barked somewhere near the farmhouse.
Trey pointed toward the unseen animal.
By the time he reached the farmyard, he had already decided three things.
The countryside smelled suspicious.
Mud was an unnecessarily aggressive substance.
And Coach was going to hear about all of this.
Then Trey saw the man beside the barn.
SERVE-331 stood beneath the open barn doors carrying a wooden fence post over one shoulder.
He looked completely out of place.
And somehow completely at home.
His glossy black uniform caught the afternoon light. Metallic silver gloves wrapped around the heavy post as though it weighed nothing. Polished silver boots stood in mud that Trey had spent the last five minutes carefully avoiding.
“You've got to be kidding me.”
“Of course you're not.”
331 lowered the fence post beside several others with irritating precision.
“What are you doing here?”
“Yes, I can see that. Why?”
“It was assigned here.”
That somehow made it worse.
Trey looked around the farm again.
“You mean to tell me Coach sends me into the middle of nowhere for a week and you just happen to get sent to the exact same farm?”
“You're incredibly annoying.”
“It has been informed of this previously.”
Instead he folded his arms.
“So what exactly are you doing?”
“Repairing the western boundary fence.”
Trey looked at the pile of posts.
“How many have you done?”
Trey's expression changed.
“How long have you been here?”
“Two hours and fourteen minutes.”
Trey glanced toward the field.
A long stretch of freshly repaired fencing disappeared over the hill.
Something inside Trey immediately objected.
Not because thirty-two fence posts mattered.
But because 331 had said it in that calm voice.
As though carrying fence posts through mud was no more difficult than walking across a room.
Trey picked up one of the remaining posts.
It was heavier than expected.
He adjusted his grip before 331 could notice.
“That post is intended for tomorrow.”
Trey hoisted it onto his shoulder.
“Well, tomorrow's come early.”
“That statement is temporally inaccurate.”
“Do you practise being irritating?”
“Natural talent, then.”
Trey started toward the field.
“You have not changed footwear.”
He looked down at his expensive trainers.
331's expression had not changed.
“I said nothing further.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I do not require different footwear.”
“That is because you're dressed like a waterproof sofa.”
331 looked down at his uniform.
“This material is substantially more durable than upholstery.”
Trey marched into the field.
His right foot sank almost immediately.
Mud climbed over the side of his trainer.
Trey slowly looked over his shoulder.
The farm owner, Mr. Hawthorne, appeared twenty minutes later.
He was somewhere in his sixties, broad, cheerful, and entirely too amused by Trey's situation.
“Coach said you'd have energy.”
Trey looked toward 331, who was driving another fence post into the earth.
“Yeah, apparently that's what we're calling it now.”
Mr. Hawthorne handed Trey a pair of old work boots.
Trey held them at arm's length.
“They've got mud on them.”
“They're farm boots.”
“They've got history on them.”
Trey muttered something that was probably best lost to the countryside.
Within an hour, he was working alongside 331.
Or, more accurately, working increasingly harder because 331 was working alongside him.
“You did that deliberately.”
“It reduced the number of journeys required.”
Mr. Hawthorne looked over from the tractor.
“Wouldn't recommend—”
He made it approximately twelve meters before one started sliding.
Trey twisted awkwardly, caught it against his hip, nearly lost another, recovered, and continued walking as though nothing whatsoever had happened.
“You could make two journeys.”
“I could also make one.”
“You are currently making one very slow journey.”
That made it worse somehow.
By late afternoon, Trey was sweating.
Trey had mud up both legs.
331's silver boots were muddy too, but annoyingly this seemed to make him look more impressive.
And every time he thought 331 might finally be slowing down, the SERVE unit simply picked up something else.
Eventually Mr. Hawthorne called from the gate.
“That's enough for today!”
Trey immediately straightened.
331 placed another post onto the pile.
“The assigned work period has concluded.”
His entire body disagreed.
Dinner was served in the farmhouse kitchen.
Bread thick enough to stop a door.
Trey decided perhaps rural civilization had some advantages.
He ate enough for three people.
Trey noticed this halfway through his second helping.
“You don't actually need food, do you?”
“That's not what I asked.”
“Then why are you sitting here?”
“Mr. Hawthorne invited it.”
Trey looked toward the farmer.
“Seemed rude not to.”
There was something absurd about it.
A SERVE drone sitting at an old farmhouse table while evening light poured through lace curtains and somebody's sheepdog slept beneath the chair.
Trey gestured at everything.
“The farm. The table. You sitting there like this is completely normal.”
“It is currently occurring. Therefore, it is normal within present conditions.”
“You really are a robot.”
331 was silent for a moment.
“You have referred to me as 'the robot' three times since arriving.”
“Three audible instances.”
“You repeat phrases when irritated.”
Trey's grin faded slightly.
“I am not irritated.”
“You increased your workload by approximately forty-one percent after observing mine.”
Mr. Hawthorne suddenly became extremely interested in his potatoes.
Trey stared across the table.
“I wasn't competing with you.”
“That sounded sarcastic.”
“I did not intend sarcasm.”
Trey's bedroom overlooked the fields.
By the time he finally dropped onto the bed, every muscle in his body had begun submitting complaints.
He pulled off the work boots.
Through the window, the countryside had changed.
The afternoon brightness was gone.
The hills were dark silhouettes beneath a deepening orange sky. Sheep moved slowly across the distant field. Birds circled above the barns.
It was annoyingly peaceful.
He lasted thirty seconds before sitting up again.
Outside, someone was still working.
SERVE-331 was in the farmyard stacking equipment beneath the barn roof.
Completely unbothered by the fact that Trey had spent the entire afternoon trying to keep pace with him.
Trey watched for another moment.
That didn't mean he was better at farm work.
There had to be something.
Whatever farmers actually did all day.
He stood from the bed and walked toward the window.
Tomorrow, he decided, would be different.
Tomorrow he wouldn't get dragged into some stupid competition.
He wouldn't care how many posts 331 carried.
He wouldn't try to match him.
He wouldn't prove anything.
Then he looked down into the yard.
331 lifted two heavy feed sacks at once.
Tomorrow he would carry three.
And with that, the first day at Hawthorne Farm ended exactly as Coach had probably feared it would.
Trey had found something to compete with.
Unfortunately for Trey—
A collaboration with @serve-331
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