The sun was dropping below the tree line when I turned the truck onto the county road toward home.

The heater in the floorboard buzzed loudly, pushing lukewarm air against our boots.

Claire stared out the side window at the dry cornstalks standing frozen in the ditch.

“He’s going to win this, Dad,” she said.

“No,” I said.

“He isn’t.”

“You saw how Pete Higgins looked at you,” she said, her voice breaking into a ragged sob she tried to choke down.

“Your name has been good in this county for forty years.