“Your mom called last night while you were out in the machine shed,” I said.

Nate took a slow sip of black coffee and didn’t turn away from the window.

“Did she want something fixed?” he asked.

“She wanted to know if we needed any extra strawberry jam from her cellar shelves,” I said.

Nate turned his head and looked at me over his shoulder, his ears pale and steady in the sun.

“What did you tell her?” he asked.

“I told her we had three jars in the pantry and didn’t need another one,” I said.