The kitchen felt far too small.

My hands moved in quick, angry chops.

The blade hit the cutting board with loud wooden cracks.

I kept thinking about the Denver hunter, a man who only wanted to walk the fields a few weekends every November.

He was going to own the porch where June used to sit.

I pushed the carrot slices into a tight pile on the cutting board.

Luke came into the kitchen at six o’clock.