The kitchen window was dark, but inside on the wooden table the green canvas ledger sat waiting for morning.

Down by my boots, tiny white ice crystals were climbing the iron latch of the field gate, thick and sharp as the dusk came on.

By four in the morning the kitchen smelled of dark roast coffee and damp canvas coats.

Dale sat at the oak table with two other men, tugging heavy wool socks up over his heels.

The two men were Sam and Mike, veterans who’d served in Dale’s unit years back and had driven up from Menomonie before daybreak.

I reached into the corner cupboard and took out Grandpa Arvid’s oversized stainless steel thermos.