She had been stuck in the sheep pen for twenty minutes.

Not stuck stuck—just emotionally. Which, let’s be honest, is worse. She’s sat cross-legged in the straw like it’s feckin’ Disneyland, absolutely feral over a week-old lamb that looks like it’s made of lint and prayer.

“Patrick, look at the sweet baby angel,” she gasps, lifting its teeny face to me like it’s baby Jesus in the nativity and I’m one of the Three Wise Men.

I lean on the gate, arms crossed, doing my best not to grin. “That one’s Tank,” I tell her. “Headbutts the wall for no reason. Like Johnny in Leaving Cert Science.”

She doesn’t laugh—she gasps. “No! His name is Gerry.” She looks down at him, strokes between his ears. “He told me.”

Oh Christ.

“Might wanna stop forming deep spiritual bonds with livestock,” I say, pushing off the gate. “You’re gonna lose the will to eat a fry.”

She doesn’t look up. “Good. Maybe I should. How can anyone eat Gerry?”

“Gerry,” I deadpan, “is supposed to be Tank. And he’s not even the worst one. There’s a hen in the shed that’ll chase you like a debt collector if you look at her sideways.”

“Yeah, well, that one’s a bitch,” she replies sweetly, scratching under Tank-Gerry’s chin. “She hissed at me.”

“She’s a hen, not a swan!”

“Didn’t stop her. Mad bastard.”

I kneel down beside her, jeans already stained from earlier. We were meant to be done by now. The plan was: quick chores, rinse off the hay smell, and head to the chippy in town—somewhere with booths and lukewarm Coke in glass bottles. That was the deal. My ma even said, “Only if ye get the lambs sorted first.”

But then she squealed. And then she cooed. And then she met Gerry.

Now we’re having a full-blown emotional breakthrough in a pen. Lovely Saturday evening.