The phone rang again at twelve twenty-two, three sharp rings that buzzed against the wood before stopping.

I didn’t answer it.

I picked up my work jacket, checked the front pocket to make sure my new account book was tucked deep inside, and walked out to the gravel drive.

Ben and Daisy were sitting on two upside-down five-gallon plastic buckets under the wooden sunshade Carl had built by the highway five years ago.

Three wooden crates of picked sweet corn sat in a row along the edge of the gravel shoulder, their husks dark green and still damp from the morning well-water wash.

A blue sedan pulled off the hot pavement, its tires crunching loudly over the loose gravel, and a woman in a sunhat rolled down her window.