Mr. Loral had cleaned the manure and blood from the family wheelbarrow as thoroughly as he could, considering the limited cleaning supplies that the village had access to. It had been a piece in the family since his great great grandfather’s purchase of the land and the establishment of the Loral farm. Since then, the inheritor used it for everything that would maintain the farm’s livelihood: hauling manure to the fields, bringing back hunted game, transporting crops to be sold into the village. It became a symbol of trust and heritage for everyone who knew the Lorals.

	But on this Summer morning, Mr. Loral had lined the cart with blankets and placed a burlap sack stuffed with goose feathers on the side closest to the handles. His only daughter, Jessie, laid in the wheelbarrow. Wedged between her body and arm was a picnic basket packed with her favorite rabbit stew. Normally, she would be staring at the packed jars and unscrewing the lids to get a small taste. But she was sick with an unknown illness that had claimed half of their village’s population. She could barely breathe, let alone possess any enthusiasm. 

        Mr. Loral had given her all forms of possible treatment, even experimental ones that the village doctor had brought from the city. Some temporarily relieved her ailments, only for the sickness to come back even stronger than it had been. 

        With no other options left, Mr. Loral accepted a vial of medicine that the doctor referred to as “gentle relief” and pushed his daughter to a field of daffodils that took a quarter of a day to reach - the amount of distance the doctor deemed safe to leave a possibly contagious corpse.

        Mr. Loral thought that the field was a perfect place for her final resting place - they had many picnics there after his wife had suddenly passed away. On previous visits there, Jessie would excitedly tell her father about the things she had learned at school the days before and Mr. Loral would nod and try to imagine the things that she was speaking about. And when they came into view of the flowers, Jessie would immediately quiet down and mention that the colors reminded her of the dress her mother used to wear in the summer. It wasn’t difficult for Mr. Loral to imagine his wife and her comforting presence.

        But now, he only listened to the grinding of wooden wheels against dirt as he tried to push the image of his dying daughter out of his mind.

	When they finally arrived, Jessie was still asleep. Mr. Loral gently settled the wheelbarrow next to the field and walked to his daughter’s side. She stirred from her sleep, but still looked exhausted. She was barely able to keep her eyes open and her chest shakily heaved up and down. He stroked her hair and looked over her, his breathing becoming more shallow as the reality of what he was going to do set in. She looked up at him and he bit his lower lip to hold back the tears already welling in his eyes. Then, she turned her head to the yellow field. She gave him a weak smile and he let out a small laugh along with some tears. He reached over and took the picnic basket from her side, rummaging through the contents until he felt the vial. He pulled it out, along with a jar of the rabbit stew. He glared at the two in his hands for a moment, steeling himself. Then, he gritted his teeth, unscrewed the jar, popped the cork of the vial and quickly poured its contents into the stew.

        He felt eyes on him and saw that Jessie had been watching him. He quickly twisted his body away in an attempt to hide his deeds.

        “You know, Jessie, I’m proud of you,” he said, trying to hide his trembling voice and feeling the tears already beginning to run down his cheeks. He looked at her and she weakly nodded her head. 

        “And you know your mother would be proud of you,” he continued, shaking the jar to mix the medicine and food together. She nodded her head again. He unscrewed the lid and hesitantly offered the food to her. His breathing and heartbeat grew more and more rapid with each passing second.

        “And you know that we both love you so much, right?” He whimpered. The tears flooded out and he tried to wipe his tears on his sleeves. Jessie reached out and tugged on her father’s shirt. She stared him in the eye with a gentle fire that he hadn’t seen since before she had come down with the illness.

        “I know, dad,” she said in between her wheezing. She took the jar with both of her hands and slowly tilted the jar’s contents into her mouth. She methodically chewed the bits of meat. Mr. Loral watched in horror, fighting with the urge to slap the jar out of her hand and make her spit out what was already in her mouth. But before he could make a decision, she swallowed the stew and winced. She put the jar to her mouth again, this time downing an even larger portion. She continued ravenously, eventually foregoing chewing the meat and instead swallowing everything whole until only a small puddle remained at the bottom of the jar. 

        Mr. Loral knelt to the ground and wept beside the wheelbarrow.

        “Can you bring me to the flowers?” She asked. Mr. Loral’s throat closed up and he nodded his head rather than risk sounding pathetic in front of his daughter. He wheeled her into the field, avoiding her gaze to prevent more tears from flooding out. He stopped at a spot where the flowers hadn’t grown yet and wiped his eyes again.

        “Can you lay me down on the ground? I want to really look at the flowers,” she said. Mr. Loral again nodded his head, still unable to utter a word without breaking down. He lifted her from the wheelbarrow and gently laid her down on the dirt. He turned to grab the sheets and pillow, but Jessie interrupted him.

        “You should bring those back with you,” she said. He looked back at her as she examined the daffodils next to her head. Time stood still for Mr. Loral as he watched her feebly reach out and touch a daffodil.

        “I love you and mom, too,” she said, restoring all of the time that had passed. Her words were slow and sounded wispy, as if the breath used to utter them were being drawn from the last fumes of life in her body. She slowly closed her eyes and her chest stopped its heaving. Mr. Loral looked upon his daughter. He gained control of his breathing again and began processing what had happened. All of it was done. He felt a hollow peace, submitting to his powerlessness to do anything but react. He walked back to the wheelbarrow, the quiet legacy of his family, and stared at it. Then, he looked at Jessie’s lifeless body and thought of what she might have done tomorrow if she weren’t sick.

        Perhaps she would have sung while helping water the crops, or laughed while she told him a funny joke she’d told him dozens of times before, or danced while accompanying him on his way to the village market. But no matter what she might have done, Mr. Loral knew she did it for him, to show him she was there for him. And he felt an overwhelming pang of regret, thinking of her only as his child. Because he knew that she was wise beyond her years and added more to his life than the wheelbarrow ever did. Yet, it was all that he could offer her.

        He walked back to the farm with his hands in his pockets, thinking if the Moore family down the road would be interested in buying the Loral property.