Oz and his Netoranch

Oz had been a farmer near the Mexican border for years. To be exact, for almost fifteen years after his father left him in full charge of it. He was nearing his thirties now, but he kept his youthful, good looks through a smart work-schedule, which also made him keep his muscle-mass intact, and by employing a few workers on his ranch.

The times had been dire for the last couple of months however, as most of his workers preferred to stay at home while shutting themselves off from the world, afraid of the ongoing pandemic. Oz minimised his losses by cancelling their contracts while still being able to keep up with the demand for his goods coming from resellers. Most of his calm, even during these hard times, came from his cellar where he kept aging various cheeses and wine he had made himself.

Most of the rooms he kept for workers were empty and he lived a slow laid-back life with having to work little, but still being somewhat lonely.

It was late in the afternoon, his back was leaning back against his rocking chair on his veranda and he looked at the scenery of his farm and the little road which led to it. He noticed, as countless times, a family passing by on this road. A lot of these people ignored his large farm, or sometimes stayed for one night or to have lunch. In his generosity he usually allowed them to stay and fill their stomachs, but in return he asked for a little bit of work around the farm. At times it was simple dusting, feeding animals, or maybe filling a silo with hay or sacks with milled wheat. But never any harder labour than that.

This family, however, looked a little more worn out than the usual bunch. Their clothes were a bit dusty and all of them were carrying large backpacks. The man’s pack even had pans and other things tied to it and these kept dangling back and forth. Behind him was his wife and their three children. Oz followed the curious bunch with his eyes as they marched on. They came to a halt by his fence gate and the man opened it. They were all walking towards him and he slowly got up from his chair to be able to greet them properly.

“Welcome to my farm. Where are you heading?” he asked them politely.

“We walked tanto, very far, but we don’t really know where to go, anymore, senor.”

Oz had heard this phrase often. There were a lot of people who crossed the borders, but did not have any goal in sight. He figured he’d give them a stay for a few nights until they find something eventually. A few working hands were always welcome.

The man was near his fifties from the looks of it and had a little mustache which perked out above his thin lips. His forehead was full of sweat and his hair had a lot of grey spots. His stomach was very round and pompous as it bulged out beneath his black tee-shirt. His eyes had a bit of desperation in them, visibly signalling that his plan was not completely thought through. Oz considered the possibility that they had to escape from something in a hurry.