I hung the nozzle back on the pump and took my printed receipt.

A delivery van was idling in my gravel driveway when I got back to the farm at two in the afternoon.

A young man in a brown uniform was stacking flat cardboard boxes on my wooden porch steps.

He had eight of them lined up against the porch railing.

“Fay Miller?” he asked.

“That’s me,” I said.

“Sign on the line,” he said, handing me a small digital screen.

I wiped my fingers down my jeans before taking his plastic stylus.