I went downstairs to the kitchen before the sun came up over the trees behind the barn.

My mother, Ruth, was already at the stove, putting the copper kettle on the gas flame.

She didn’t turn when I came in, but she set out two heavy stoneware mugs on the counter.

She took Jeremy’s blue metal lunchbox out of her tote bag and flipped open the latch.

“He didn’t have his coffee before he left,” Ruth said.

“Where did he go?” I asked her.