“Mom?” Ben called from the mudroom.

“Grandpa brought the sweet corn crates over from the south forty.”

I swept the slips into my leather work bag, locked the steel box, and put it back on the wardrobe shelf.

I walked down the stairs into the kitchen, holding my bag against my side.

Ben stood by the sink with a crate of fresh sweet corn, his canvas track shoes soaked around the rubber soles.

The black electrical tape he had wrapped around his left toe was already peeling off in thin, curling strips.