lane.
Travis was backing the John Deere out of the shed, the wide tires crunching through the white frost on the gravel. He turned the tractor toward the back pasture, his head straight ahead, never glancing back toward the house.
I held the yellow bank check stub against the cold glass of the windowpane while Travis walked out to the tractor.
I slipped the paper into my jacket pocket and drove straight to my father’s place three miles west of town.
Duane Ostrem sat at his yellow kitchen table with a dark stoneware mug between his palms. The kettle on his stove was still steaming, casting a small circle of vapor against the window pane.
I sat down across from him and set my car keys on the oilcloth.
“I need somebody to walk Kaylee out on Thursday night,” I said.
Dad reached for the blue ceramic pot and poured
