She was loading two heavy fifty-pound bags of copper sulfate into the open back of her station wagon.

She wiped her hands again and again on her canvas apron before setting her work gloves on the lowered tailgate.

“Carl said the sweet corn harvest starts at five tomorrow morning,” Grace said.

“We need sixty wooden crates loaded before the afternoon sun reaches the fourth row.”

“I’ll be at the field loading ramp at four-thirty,” I said.

Grace reached into her deep apron pocket, pulled out two crisp hundred-dollar bills, and folded them into a neat square between her fingers.

“Take this for your kitchen, Nora,” Grace said.