All three of them were covered in sawdust when Pa came into the barn. Eli stumbled to his feet and shook off the bits of wood.

"What are you doin' here, son?"

Eli rushed to get the feed bucket outside the pen. "The calf keeps growin', Pa," she murmured. "Thought I'd feed him. In case there was a flood or something. On account of all that rain."

Pa craned his neck, looked up at the pen's ceiling, then kicked up some sawdust. "Looks dry to me," he said. "Listen. He's gotta learn to be on his own, Eli."

"But he's barely a teenager."

"Who told you that?"

"Grandpa."

Pa took his cap off, then put it back on. "Sounds like you're spending a whole lot of time talking and not enough on chores." Pa walked to the tack room and got out the spade, the one with the sharpest point. Eli knew what that meant. "Just 'cause you got a bull calf don't mean you can quit on your chores." Pa handed him the shovel. "It's time you dug up thistles."

"But I got school." The hair on Eli's arms bristled. He hated digging thistles. And he was certain Pa knew it. Last year he got at least one bubbly blister from the wooden handle, and his eyes stung whenever a pricker whittled its way into the work gloves.

"Start with the pine fields, Eli. There's at least an hour before school."