“She did,” he said.

“She never sprayed them or fussed over them either.”

He picked up his heavy metal lunch box from where he had set it by the porch rail.

The black paint on the metal corners was worn down to bare silver steel from years on the floor of the truck.

Inside were a ham sandwich, a red apple, and two thick oatmeal cookies I had baked on Tuesday night.

“What time will you be home tonight?” I asked.