“I can see why you like him.”

We crouched on the floor by the window, just poking our heads above the sill, peering through beads of condensation on the inside of the window, mirrored by a patina of light frost on the outside, as he tended to the two horses. He took the larger by the reins and led it into the barn.

“I don’t like him.”

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t! Look at that hat!”

“It’s a nice hat. What’s wrong with hats? You do like him.”

“No, I just pretend to. Because it’s obvious, and no one will ask questions. And I can’t be having questions.”

He came back out the barn with the reins in his hand and shut the bottom door. He looked around and we crouched a little further. But he didn’t look up.

“Plus he smells kind of weird.”

“He smells of horses.”

“I hate horses.”