Forty-two thousand a year to tell kids about the Civil War?”

“Somebody has to.”

“Somebody has to,” Brandon repeated in a singsong voice.

He flipped a burger, and grease hissed.

He touched his back pocket, where a folded paper showed above the seam.

Martha sat in the red plastic patio chair near the garden, smoothing her linen apron across her lap.

The chair had a fresh split along the left arm, and she kept her thumb over it.

Rachel sat across from her, fiddling with her silver pen cap.