On his feet were his new blue running shoes with thick rubber soles, paid for in cash from the morning corn sales on Route 9.

Daisy stood near the tailgate of Carl’s green pickup, holding her wooden picking basket by both wire handles while Carl loaded full corn crates.

Grace stood by the front bumper, wiping her palms over and over on her canvas apron as she watched the gravel lane.

“There’s a cloud of dust coming off the highway,” Grace said, pointing toward the oak trees.

The black SUV turned into the farm lane at thirty miles an hour, its tires spraying dry limestone chips against the wooden fence posts.