Now here's Rachel Yoder.

The Promise.

From the kitchen table, it was all sunlight and haze.

Through the sliding glass door, the morning mist burned off the green waves of corn.

A low red veal barn far beyond marked the place where the land rose up, then turned to trees.

The girl named Birdie diligently spooned Raisin Bran into her mouth, cold milk dribbling down her chin, and against her will, thought of her visit to the veal barn the day before.

The tug of the calf's tongue on the mauve nipple of the bottle, the white formula sloshing inside.

We're gonna survive.