The Ill Well

By David Daniel RiedelSeptember 12, 2026

The cow’s been sick for three days, like nothing I have ever seen before. Standing in the yard, heaving. A violent rhythm. Like when you’re so sick your body fights to empty the stomach, only her chest is covered in froth, new and virgin-white, not bile. And her mouth hangs open, mucus from her nose running into it. And her moaning is low, not painful, as if she’s somewhere else. As if she doesn’t hear the sound of her own call. Father would have put her down already if she weren’t so far along. Any day now, he said. When flesh is money, you don’t just bury it. Her calf might be okay, he said. We’ll wait it out. See what happens. She wanders the yard, lost, with giant golden-brown irises, red matted fur. My brothers and I have quit our play, sitting on the porch. Hers is a slow pace. A stumbling shuffle. We watch her struggle through a bush. I hug my arms tight around my legs. It’s cold, supposed to snow. She’s like a zombie, Arael says. Why doesn’t he tie her up? When has he ever cared enough? Michael says. She won’t even drink from her […]

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