Free Hour of the Bees by Lindsay Eagar Page A

stuff,” I say.
    “Serge will take care of the sheep.” Mom lowers her voice. “I just need you to . . . supervise.” She cracks more eggs into the pan. “Alta! Get up now!”
    “I
am
up!” comes the holler from the other side of the house, even though Alta’s most likely still horizontal under the covers.
    Mom turns back to me. “Dad and I have our own to-do lists today. And you and Serge seem to have a special thing —”
    “No, we don’t,” I say automatically.
    “Sure you do,” Mom says. “You’re the only one he’s talked to besides Dad.”
    I scowl, not wanting to admit that she’s right.
    From the moment I met him yesterday, something about Serge has drawn me in — maybe the glow of his eyes when he looks at me, or the way his forehead is always furrowed, or the way he stares at his ranch, like he’s lost in love with this land.
    When my parents told me we’d be spending the summer here, I expected to have stiff, forced conversations with this grandfather I’d never met. I expected he’d ask me about school, about my friends, about what I wanted to be when I grew up. I didn’t think he’d have anything interesting to say.
    I didn’t think he’d spin a magical story about a tree and a lake and a boy and a girl. . . .
    “Okay,” I say. “I’ll supervise. But I’m not touching any sheep.”
    “Thanks.” Mom lifts Lu into my arms. “Will you take Lu with you?”
    Humph. My friends are hanging out at the water slides, and I’m stuck babysitting Lu and Serge.
    After breakfast Serge and I walk down the rickety porch steps, Lu in tow.
    Dad’s on a ladder angled to the roof, holding a paintbrush. “Morning,” he calls. “How’s it look?” He gestures to the wood trim around the house.
    To me, there’s no difference between where he’s painted and where he hasn’t — it’s all the same moldy beige.
    “Looks good,” I say.
    Dad hops down in front of us. “Where you heading?”
    “Sheep need shearing,” Serge says.
    “Mom’s making me,” I add, in case he thinks the real Carol was body-snatched by a new, alien Carol who’s a sheep enthusiast.
    Dad frowns at his father. “In the drought?”
    Serge folds his arms. “The ranch doesn’t shut down because of a drought.”
    “But they’re so bony,” Dad says, his eyes weary. “Don’t they need their wool?”
    “Are you a sheep farmer now?” Serge stretches, taller than I’ve ever seen him, his anger stretching tall, too.
    Dad digs the toe of his boot into the grass like a little kid. “I’m just trying to help.”
    “I’ve been running a band of sheep longer than you’ve been alive,” Serge says, “and don’t forget,
niño
: You left. I stayed.” He kicks up a tornado of red dust as he stomps to the barn. His oxygen tank leaves tracks in the dirt.
    Dad bursts the bubble of silence. “Carol. Grandpa is . . .” Whatever he’s about to explain, it melts away in the heat. “Let me know if he does anything out of the ordinary.”
    I sling Lu onto my hip. “I’ve never sheared sheep before. How will I know if he’s doing something out of the ordinary?”
    Dad’s eyes flash black, the only cold in all the desert. “Just come get me if he does anything weird.”
    Weird
. I turn the word over in my mind. Does Serge’s story about the lake and the tree count as weird?
    Dad’s already back up on the ladder, muttering to himself. He paints in violent slaps, marking the wood with splotches shaped like little witch brooms. Of the two of them, Dad’s the one acting weird.
    I follow my grandpa to the barn.
    Yesterday, when I was looking for Lu, the barn felt like a sacred space, a cathedral in disguise. It must have been the illusion of sunset, because today, in the bright morning light, the barn is just a barn. Lu squirms, turning to jelly in my arms. I drop him, and he waddles to a worn-out saddle and bounces on it.
    “You must forgive your dad,” Serge says, propping the square doors open. “He forgets how