My sister Yuki lifts the lowest wire of the fence, and Piko squirms under first, leaving tufts of his white fur snagged in the barbs. Mom goes next, I follow her, and Yuki comes last, each of us barrel rolling beneath the fence and into the rolling pasture land beyond it. The wind whips our hair into our faces, and the thick, uneven grass looks golden-green in the late afternoon light. Piko is already bounding toward the hill, ecstatic. He knows where we’re going, and pauses occasionally to make sure we are following.
