“Guys will pay cash to get a combine running at ten o’clock at night when rain is coming in on a hundred acres of standing corn,” Nate said.

He put his hand on the gearshift but didn’t shift into drive right away.

He looked down at the dashboard, where the light blue card sat against the gray plastic trim.

The bluebird was printed on heavy textured paper, hovering over a nest drawn in brown ink lines, with gold glitter glued along the edges of its wings.

Inside, in his mother’s neat schoolteacher handwriting, it said: You two have always been so capable, we never worry about you.

Nate picked up the card, turned it over once in his thick fingers, and set it back down face up on the dashboard.