No hospital billing ledger marked in red audit ink sat stacked beside my coffee.

The morning sun came up over the trees to the east and lit the yellow pine floorboards we had scraped down on our knees with wire brushes.

Through the open archway in the dining room, the bottom drawer of the walnut desk held the recorded county tax deed, flat and quiet under a brass paperweight.

Nate came into the kitchen in a clean blue work shirt with the diesel shop patch sewn above the pocket.

He had no black grease under his fingernails from an all-night harvest repair call on a combine.