“I’m trying to be reasonable here,” Brad said, crossing to the sink to fill a glass with tap water.

“We had a good run, Amy.

No sense burning bridges over four days of deer season.”

While he had his back to me at the faucet, I looked down into the open wooden toolbox.

The bottom compartment had a loose divider where Arvid used to keep spare hacksaw blades.

The thin floorboard was raised a little at one corner, and a piece of crumpled white paper was tucked flat beneath it.

I slipped my fingers in and drew the paper out before Brad shut off the water.