The change was immediate and absolute following our return from the back acres of the farm late last October. Since that day, Leo has abandoned the comfort of our shared bedroom, refusing to lay his head on a mattress or under a quilt. Instead, he has taken up a permanent residence in the hayloft of the old barn. He spends his nights huddled against Daisy, our gentlest Jersey cow. There is something profoundly unsettling about the sight of him wrapped around her large, warm frame, seeking a solace that the rest of us apparently cannot provide. My mother, ever the optimist, thinks it is a sweet, eccentric bond between a boy and his animal. My father dismisses it with a shrug, calling it a strange phase that will pass with the first frost of winter. But I have always sensed that Leo’s exile to the barn is not about affection—it is about sanctuary.
