The pump display at the Cenex in Elk Mound read thirty-eight dollars when Kurt Ostrowski pulled his Ford up beside mine.

The handle was ice-cold through my thin jacket, the digital numbers clicking past three dollars and forty-nine cents a gallon.

Kurt climbed out in his brown work jacket and set his thermos down in the bed of his truck.

He tipped his cap at me across the island.

“Morning, Amy.

You’re up early today.”

“Have to beat the heat,” I said, topping off the tank.

“The corn’s coming down over on County Route H.”

Kurt peeled off his right work glove one finger at a time.

He looked past my shoulder at the eastern tree line, where the sun was just clearing the red oaks.

“Dropped the envelope off with Brad last night,” Kurt said.

“Same as last year, Amy, four grand cash to Brad.”

My hand stayed locked around the plastic nozzle trigger.

The pump shut off with a hard metallic snap, but I didn’t hang up the hose.

“Four thousand dollars?” I said.

“For gun season,” Kurt said.

He leaned against his tailgate, squinting into the low light.

“He said the four of us get the south ridge all the way through December.