wooden milk crate in the middle alley of his dairy barn.
An old yellow flannel rag was in his right hand, and an open tin of black polish rested on a straw bale next to his boot.
His hickory cane stood leaning against the whitewashed pine post behind his shoulder.
He had made that cane thirty years ago out of a shagbark hickory branch cut from the creek pasture, sanding the wood until it was smooth as bone.
“You are twenty minutes early,” he said without looking up from his work.
He worked the rag across the toe of his left dress shoe in slow, tight circles, applying the dark paste to the leather.
“I had to make sure you were still planning on coming tonight,” I said.
Duane stopped his hand and held the shoe up toward the single yellow bulb hanging from the rafters.
“I do not offer
