I reach across the tablecloth, pick up the wicker basket, and pass the dinner rolls to Kim, keeping quiet about the bluebird card hidden in Nate’s shirt pocket.

Nate turned the pickup onto the blacktop heading north before the dashboard clock hit three.

The fields on both sides of Route 14 lay black and flat, stripped bare after harvest, with standing water in the low spots as they waited for corn planting.

Nate reached into his shirt pocket and took out the bluebird card.

He laid it flat on the vinyl dashboard between us, right above the heater vents, where the paper fluttered twice in the dry air from the fan.

“What do we have in the money market account at First National?” he asked.