I remember the first time I watched my dad kill a lamb. He was in the tractor shed, behind the moulding log pile. There were sheets and paper on the ground and the lamb brayed from a tether in the corner. He took it behind the ear and dragged it close. A knife, smaller than I thought it should be, flashed once and the lamb screamed like a child. Blood hit his shins and shoes and steamed in the air though the day wasn’t cold. When he saw me in the doorway I thought he’d be angry but he motioned me in. Took my hands and put them to the cut throat. It was like touching fresh mango.