by R.M. Garabedian When I swing open the doors to the shed on the ramshackle ranch I’ve rented, Harold grabs a shovel and hoists it above his head: “Because this is all you’ll ever be able to do out here: shovel shit — horse shit!” I am ready. A girlhood in mumbling, self-effacing Rhode Island notwithstanding, several years of Manhattan living had yielded this clear positive: a sharpened tongue. …