It’s a strange thing about a rural route — the people on it barely know each other.

They know me, the thread, but the beads on the thread don’t touch.

For thirty-one years I was the only thing the Petersens and Odell and Emmitt and the Bakkes had in common; I carried news between them without meaning to, told Emmitt the Petersen boy made honor roll, told the Bakkes that Odell’s honey was early this year.

I was their whole connective tissue, and they’d never needed to connect directly because I did it for them.

And now, forced to it by my leaving, they were finding each other.

Krista met Darlene over Emmitt and they became friends across eight hundred miles and a phone.