X-P8 gazed skyward, tapping her hoof in a rapid sequence familiar to X-P12: “When do you think they’ll return? We’ve already gathered all the data we need. And I just hate this. It’s humiliating.” X-P12 tapped back commiseration. Meanwhile, the farmer squeezed X-P8’s teat, crooning, “Shhh, Bessie. Almost done. Soon.”
Tracy Royce writes prose and poetry in Southern California.
