“I washed the inside out with hot water and baking soda, the way my mother used to,” Dale said, holding it out to me in both hands.

“Not one speck of old coffee grounds left in it.”

“Thanks, Dale,” I said, taking the thermos by its sturdy metal handle.

“We got two bucks off the east ridge Sunday morning,” Dale said, stepping back toward the drive.

“Kurt took his six-pointer right by the old apple tree at six forty-five.”

“Kurt was hunting with you?” I asked.

“He was,” Dale said.

He pointed down at the white butcher-paper packages lined up neatly in the cardboard box.