I could smell the sharp tang of diesel exhaust in the cold air.

Two men I recognized from the county shop stood near the rusted wire fence, talking quietly with their hands jammed deep in their pockets.

Their boots pressed the dry winter grass flat against the soil.

Denny Kruse stepped slowly up the wooden blocks to the hay wagon.

He gripped the rusted metal railing with both hands.

His knuckles were swollen thick with arthritis.

I watched him pull his stiff legs up the last step, his face tight with effort.