“They’ll be planting corn by Thursday afternoon,” I said.

He picked up his mug and his plate and stepped out through the back screen door onto the porch.

I followed him out into the cold morning air and onto the clean oak boards.

The new step felt smooth and dry under my bare feet, notched square into the rim joist Nate had replaced after work.

Nate sat on the top step with his boots wide apart, resting his elbows on his knees.

A red pickup went by on the county blacktop, its tires making a dry whir on the asphalt.