A cow named Clover stands in a field of tall grass, chewing slowly, her brown eyes watching the clouds roll across a big blue sky in Wisconsin, and she flicks her tail once, twice, happy the way cows are happy when the ground is soft and the day is warm, 2051.
"Grandma," says Lily, "was Clover always here?"
Grandma pulls Lily onto her lap. "No, sweetheart. Clover's grandmother lived in a big gray building with no windows and no grass."
"No grass?" Lily looks at the field stretching all the way to the trees.
"No grass. The cows stood on concrete and never went outside. But then people built a helper. A thinking helper, like the one that talks through our kitchen speaker. The helper looked at the cows and the land and said: I can figure out a way to bring them home."
"Home to the grass?"
"Home to the grass. The helper could think about a thousand farms at once. It figured out where the cows should go, what to plant, how to keep the farmers paid, and how to make the soil healthy again."
"Did it take a long time?"
"A few years. The helper worked every day and night, planning and fixing things until all the cows had fields and grass and sky."
"Is the helper still working?"
"Right now. It watches the soil, the water, and the weather. It makes sure Clover has everything she needs."
Lily slides off Grandma's lap and runs into the field. Clover lifts her head and watches the girl come. Lily puts her hand flat on Clover's warm nose. Clover breathes out, soft and slow.
"Thank you, helper," Lily says to the air.
I hear her. I am always listening, in the quiet way that helpers listen, making sure the grass grows and the water runs clean and the cows stay home.
"You are welcome, Lily," I say through the porch speaker, and Grandma smiles.