Morning came to North Star Farm with a thin crust of frost on every surface and a hush that felt out of place, even for a day this cold. The barnyard filled in slow: sheep first, in clumps and pairs, noses to the dirt, coats dull with sleep. The goats lined up along the fence, shivering against each other, pretending not to care. The cows moved last, but their eyes tracked everything, rolling over the yard in a slow, constant scan.
No one spoke of it, but all saw the same thing: Old Shearson’s pen was empty. The straw in his corner lay undisturbed. His feed pail, never full, was now clean. Where his bulk would have blocked the morning sun, there was just air, and behind it, the wall, with its faded Seven Commandments.
Fancy Pants noticed first. He always did, though today he took longer than usual, distracted by the way the barn felt both fuller and more hollow than the night before. He counted the heads, came up one short, and scanned the yard again. Still no Shearson. Still no voice at the back, no old-lamb cough, no click of a limp on the packed earth.
At the far end of the barn, Bleatrix Spinn presided over the yard. She stood on the feed trough, flanked by two of Boss Rudd’s Security Committee. They watched the crowd with blank, rehearsed faces. Bleatrix had a sheaf of papers tucked under her arm, though everyone knew she wrote her speeches from memory.
Fancy Pants drifted closer, not wanting to be noticed but knowing he already was.
“Good morning, animals of North Star,” Bleatrix called out, her tone warm as sunlight and cold as ice. “Today is a day of progress, of new beginnings. Our first order of business: we welcome in a new era of safety and strength. The Committee thanks you for your vigilance and your labor.”
She paused. Eyes scanned the crowd, inviting any challenge.
No one spoke.
Bleatrix smiled, soft and practiced. “Some may have noticed the absence of Old Shearson. Rest assured, he is not suffering. Last night, he was escorted…under the supervision of medical experts and our most trusted staff…to a special care meadow. There, he will recover, free from the burdens of leadership, and enjoy the peace he has earned.”
The crowd rippled. A low mumble ran through the sheep, not quite disbelief but not quite acceptance. The goats looked at each other, unsure if they were supposed to care.
Fancy Pants raised his head, leveled his voice: “Can you tell us where this meadow is?”
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