One…two…three…four… The shearing process is fully operational, ticking away like clockwork with the efficiency of horse-power. Andy shears the sheep and then directs them over to Laurel, who soaks them in water and brushes away the excess wool. Each newly-shed sheep is then ushered out of the door to dry off in the daylight, under close watch by their resident security guard Richard.
Five…six…seven…eight… A heap of fleece mounts up in the barn as each sheep sheds their summer jacket. What would become of all that wool? Winter scarves? Blankets for new-borns? Or perhaps just another fleece?
Nine…ten…eleven…twelve… Andy whistles a merry tune as he works, which Laurel soon finds himself imitating unconsciously. This laid-back work environment is a stark contrast to the uptight schedule enforced by Atlas.
Thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…sixteen… Mamamu Yan's picnic baskets rest on the haystacks untouched. There's no stopping these boys as they burn through lunchtime into the afternoon. However, this does not stop Richard from yapping as his patience wears thin.
Seventeen…eighteen…nineteen…huh?
"Where's the last one?" Andy asks, glancing about the empty barn.
"Maybe you miscounted?" Laurel suggests.
"I've been doing this damn thing for years!" the youngster snaps. "I never count wrong!"
He shoves the stool from under his legs and struts about the field. Laurel follows closely behind, tailed by a grumpy growling Richard. Beneath the dreary overcast skies, Andy tallies the bald creatures one-by-one.
"Nineteen…" he concludes worrisomely.
"But there were twenty when we started?" Laurel recalls. "How could one have escaped?"
"Never mind how…" Andy dismisses him. "Right now, we only concern ourselves with the where."
He whistles sharply between his fingers, rupturing Laurel's eardrums. The terrier ceases its relentless yapping as its ears stand to attention.
"Richard! I need you to sniff out our missing lady!"
The dog stares blankly at the farm-boy without moving. Andy rolls his eyes with a grimace.
"God-damnit, you're spoiled!" he begrudgingly extracts a cube of cow-steak from his pocket and tosses it forward. The dog leaps up and chomps it in mid-air before racing off into the hills.
"You keep meat in your pockets?" Laurel says with a hint of disgust.
"Never mind that: follow that dog!"
The two boys bound after the hyperactive pooch on its quest for more treats. They jump the fence and clamber up the moor. Higher and higher they ascend until the sullen skies are almost in reach. Clouds laden with rain cloak their vision as they stumble to the top.
"Where did that damn sheepdog get to…?" Andy grumbles.
Laurel scans the horizon and spots a smudge on the shoreline below. "There!"
The ranch-hands lurch over the hillside, skidding and staggering their way to the bottom. Upon their haphazard arrival, they are greeted by the uneasy growls of the sheepdog as he hunches beside an enormous woolly carcass.
"Oh goodness!" Laurel slumps to the ground to inspect for a pulse. "It must have fallen!"
The sheep lies wide-eyed in a pool of blood: no pulse, no breath, and no sign of a breakage; only the yellow froth spilling from its open jaw.
"What's that?" Laurel gestures to the unidentifiable bile. "Vomit? Something spewed from its guts?"
"Oh no…" Andy observes the remains with horror-filled eyes. "Oh no…"
"What's the matter?" Laurel turns to his petrified accomplice with anxiety. "Andy, tell me what's wrong!"
"This is very bad…very very bad…" Andy removes his planter's hat and holds it to his chest. "We need to tell Mother about this…"
Without further ado, Andy flees for the hills. Richard turns to Laurel with a scowl before bounding after his master. Laurel looks to the sheep with pity. Such a terrible waste of life…
Without a second thought, he reaches out and closes the creature's eyes so it may rest in peace. The heavens open and rain arrives to wash away the blood. Laurel casts his eyes over the shoreline for any predators before retreating up the hill.
