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"Do you think the clouds ever get tired of floating, Barnaby?" Leo asked, his voice barely a whisper against the rustle of the wind.

As the sky turned a deep, bruised purple, Leo felt a gentle nudge. Barnaby was standing now, his head cocked toward the farmhouse where a single yellow light had just flickered on in the kitchen window. It was the signal. 5429006_035.jpg

The fence at the edge of Miller’s Farm was more than just a boundary; for young Leo, it was a grandstand. Every afternoon, as the sun began its slow dip toward the horizon, Leo would climb the weathered cedar rails, his boots dangling over the tall, un-mowed grass. "Do you think the clouds ever get tired of floating, Barnaby