I sealed the five envelopes, pressed the flaps down firmly with my thumb, and dropped them into the hospital’s outgoing mail slot before the carrier came at three.

On Saturday night at eight o’clock, a cool wind came across the harvested cornfields and blew through the open window of the Miller dining room.

Nate stood on a wooden fruit crate in the middle of the room, tightening the small brass mounting screws on a glass light fixture he had saved from an old homestead being torn down near the county line.

“Pass me those four twenty-watt bulbs from the box,” he said, reaching his palm down without turning his head.