There is no light on the farm, and my sneakers on the gravel path seem to echo to the mountains, shade upon shade on the horizon. I’m looking for a place to sit out of the cold.

A peacock walks in front of me. He looks like one of the lavender bushes has come to life.

When I find all the doors—to the office, to the restaurant, to the shop—are closed, I sit on a bench in the fitness center in front of a mirror. The reflection of the light in the glass doors to the outside make it impossible to see. In an hour, I don’t notice the sun has risen and the mountains are covered in snow.


Thomas Cook lives in Los Angeles, CA and Galesburg, IL. He is an editor and publisher of Tammy, and a special feature of his work is forthcoming in Quarterly West.