The next day, we were back at Mrs. Falala’s, just me and Luke. Surely you don’t need us along, right? Dad had said. Surely you and Lukey can handle this on your own, right? And remember, be respectful. Right? Right, right, right. All the way over, Luke said, Don’t let her poke me, Reena. Don’t let her scold me. Don’t let her be mean to me. I will try my best, I said, but I was wishing that my parents were along so I could say, Don’t let her poke me; don’t let her scold me; don’t let her be mean to me. And then I thought, Come on, Reena, you are old enough to handle one little old lady. Mrs. Falala was waiting for us by the barn, sitting on a hay bale. First: water! So much for pleasantries. From her hay bale throne, Mrs. Falala barked orders: Empty bucket! Over there! Fill with water! See hose? Not too much. Not too little. Put it over there. There! Get feed bucket. Not that one! The other one! Take to feed bin. Over there! Fill it up! No, not full-full! Half-full! Put it over there.
