The school hallway was dead quiet. Summer break meant no kids, no bells, just the hum of a fan somewhere.
The thermostat on the wall was taped over with a note. It said, “Set for summer — do not adjust.” I figured someone set it last spring and never came back.
I was there to sign my youngest up for 4-H. The paperwork sat on a table outside the principal’s office.
The quiet reminded me of the week the clocks change. That Sunday every year when we lose an hour and the cows don’t know.
My father used to grumble about it for days. He’d say, “Cows don’t wear watches, boy.”
Standing in that empty hallway, I thought about how I’d become him. Same calloused hands, same worry about the next milk check.
The 4-H form asked for a parent signature. I wrote my name in the careful capital letters he taught me.
I walked back to the truck and drove the twelve miles home. The cows were waiting, same as always.