Snapping my arm forward, I winged a stone toward the woods. It fell short of Ripley Powers's dog, Tyrus. I meant it to fall short. I had no wish to hurt the dog, only to chase him off.
"Get on home!" I yelled through the gauze mask that had covered my face for nearly a week now. I shook my fist at the dog. "Get on home, Tyrus!"
Even after he'd run into the woods, Tyrus's barking cut through the crisp November air, echoing down the valley.
Back across the field, in a corner of the front pasture, the yearling sheep crowded together, except for one,