“Since Kim bought new carpet for her ranch house with her land money.”

Nate rinsed his arms under the cold tap and dried off with a clean dish towel.

“Tell her our floors are fine,” Nate said.

Eight months after that, a red Ford pickup pulled into our gravel driveway at ten o’clock on a bright Saturday morning.

A man in a brown hunting jacket got out and walked over to where Nate stood beside the small detached garage.

Nate’s bass boat sat on its custom single-axle trailer under the oak tree, its blue fiberglass hull waxed clean and shining in the May sun.