Rory was already out of the cab, leaning over the tall metal bed to drag out a heavy black tire with both hands.

He set it against the green garage siding and reached back into the truck for another.

“These have at least two good seasons left in the tread,” he called across the yard, his voice carrying clearly over the low rumble of the engine.

I stood on the bottom porch step with my hands shoved deep in my cardigan pockets.

“What are those for, Rory?”

“Sadie’s car,” he said, rolling the second tire up next to the first with a heavy thump in the dirt.