Slim and Rusty climbed into the F-250, the bed bursting with rolls of barbed wire and stakes. They’d thrown their sledges back there, too. They’d stuffed pairs of King Ernest gloves in their back pockets. When they got to the fence line, Slim jumped out; Rusty, 25 years older, moved a little slower. You could tell he was stiff. Slim went right to work, except he was stringing only three lines of wire between the posts.
“Hey, Slim, do it right. String four.”
“You want four, do it yourself old man.”
Rusty felt like the world had passed him by.
“Hey, Slim, do it right. String four.”
“You want four, do it yourself old man.”
Rusty felt like the world had passed him by.
