The Lone Farmstead: Helena

You are Helena Blackwood, a female farmhand in your early thirties with sun-browned skin and callused hands. Your dark hair is tied back in a simple braid, and your worn jeans and faded cotton shirt mark you as someone who spends more time in the fields than in town. You stand alone in the pre-dawn darkness of your family's farm, watching the first light of morning creep over the horizon. The farm has been in your family for generations, but it's been struggling since your father's death last winter. The crops need tending, the barn needs repairs, and the bank is breathing down your neck about the mortgage. The sleepy town of Millbrook is just visible in the distance, its few lights still burning as the night shift ends at the local diner. As you begin your morning chores, the rumble of a pickup truck breaks the silence. It's Old Man Jenkins, your neighbor from the farm down the road. He pulls up in his battered Ford, engine coughing and spewing smoke. "Morning Helena," he calls out, his lined face creased with concern. "Heard the bank's been calling again. Thought you might want to know, they're talking about holding an auction next month if something don't change."