Kurt reached into his vest pocket and drew out a sheet of yellow paper folded into four tight squares.

I held out my hand, but Kurt didn’t give me the paper just yet.

He looked straight at Dale, his eyes narrowing as he took in the faded yellow stitching on Dale’s sleeve.

The soft crunch of Kurt’s boots crossing the frozen cornstalks toward Dale was the only sound left on the ridge.

Kurt stopped five feet shy of the cornfield tree line.

His Winchester hung barrel-down over his right shoulder, and his jaw was clenched against the cold morning wind.