The afternoon heat smelled of dry corn husks, hot rubber tires, and diesel exhaust from the idling pump tractor.

Daisy came around the corner of the porch carrying an empty wooden picking basket by both wire handles.

She stopped three feet from my boots, her small fingers gripping the bare wooden slats as she looked up at Mark.

“Mom,” Daisy whispered.

“Are we picking row twelve next?”

“Row twelve is next, Daisy,” I said.

“Go tell your brother to bring the empty bushel tubs from the shade.”

Ben came out from behind the corn crib carrying two empty wooden crates by their end slats.