Carl hauled a full sixty-pound oak crate off the tailgate rail and slammed it onto the truck bed floor.

The sharp scrape of raw wood on rusted steel vibrated right up through the soles of my work boots.

Nobody spoke while the dust settled around the rear tires of the old Ford truck.

Mark looked at Carl’s back, then at his mother, and finally at me.

“Nora,” Mark said, his voice dropping into the quiet, measured tone he used with upset parents in the high school office.

“Can we please go somewhere else and talk?”