It was the kind of farm that made you catch your breath. A small sign, professionally painted, swung in the breeze, making a small creaking noise. Bisky Farms Cliff Bisky, Vivian Bisky Owners, Trainers Welcome Sonora, embryo horse owner that she was, felt a wash of envy and wistful admiration. A small, well-lit guard booth was empty. Sonora hung her head out the window. The booth was generously built; it had the look and fragrance of fresh raw wood. It was cute inside, like the little playhouse that the girl who had grown up across the street from Sonora had had delivered on her eighth birthday, causing Sonora much envy and distress when the girl would only permit her to stand in the doorway and look inside. A phone, a neat desk, an intercom. A small brown bag with a sandwich made of white bread resting in a baggie on the top. ‘What kind of sandwich is that?’ Sonora said. Sam leaned out the window. ‘Definitely chicken salad.’ ‘Could be tuna.’ ‘Tuna’s darker.’ A radio played softly.
