When my sister asked me to watch her 11-year-old son, Reuben, for a few days, I brought him to my quiet farm—no screens, just chores and silence. He didn’t complain, but I could tell he felt out of place.
By day three, something shifted. I found him whispering to a hen and feeding our loneliest goat, whom he named Marshmallow. When I asked why, he said, “She looks lonelier than me.” That night, I called my sister and asked the questions I’d been avoiding. The next morning, I saw a sign Reuben had made and nailed above the shed door:
