It begins at 5:00 AM on a subzero day as I start my daily routine on a dairy farm. Nearing the end of my early morning routine, I check on two pregnant heifers in the barn, both had given birth. The newborn animals move into the main barn and lie down on warm sawdust, the two wet calves eagerly await their mother’s milk. The smaller of these calves is as frigid as the night, so I lay down extra sawdust under its body, insulating it from the cement floor. Leaving the line of calves, I go about my routine. After changing a few milking machines, I come back to check on the newborn calf, it starts to shiver. I find a worn comforter, and wrap the hypothermic calf in its warmth. I again change more milking machines only to come back to see its lungs fall, but never rise again. I see steam from its concluding breath leave its mouth. I witness that calf alter its form: it suddenly loses all expression in its body, muscles limp, skin promptly falls away from the bone. It lies there numb, an empty carcass accentuated by its empty eyes; the spark of life, that glossy sheen of vitality suddenly instantaneously lost. All that exists in that moment is my emptiness to have done more.