Dale brought his blue Ford pickup to a full stop beside the pump house and climbed out onto the gravel with a cardboard box in his arms.

He had on his heavy brown canvas work jacket with the First Cav patch sewn to the left shoulder.

“Cold afternoon, Amy,” Dale said, setting the heavy box on the bottom porch step.

“It’s supposed to drop to twenty before the sun goes down,” I said.

Dale reached into a corner of the box and lifted out something heavy wrapped in a soft white kitchen towel.

He unwrapped it, and there was Arvid’s big stainless steel thermos, scrubbed so clean the polished metal reflected the gray sky over the barn.