Autumn came early to the Great Plains. The wheat turned gold before the corn was fully dry. The air grew crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and curing leaves. Ezra walked through the settlement with a cane. Not because he needed it. His legs were strong. But the wood was smooth. Carved from an ash tree that grew near the river. It felt good in his hand. A grounding weight.
He stopped at the communal barn. It was full. Bales of hay stacked high. Dried herbs hanging from the rafters. The smell was sweet. Hay. Lavender. Sage.
Children ran past him. Laughing. Chasing a dog. A stray that had wandered in last winter. It had stayed. Just like the people.
"Uncle Ezra," a boy shouted. He stopped. Skidded in the dirt. "The visitors are here."
Ezra frowned. Visitors were common now. Traders.
