Eight Thousand Gallons of Milk and a Small Blue Ledger

on the inside against my skin. John had built this place with thirty-four cows and a second-hand delivery truck. He had spent three years in the garage with a block of pine, carving the original mold for the dented jug until he got the curve exactly right.

“He is my son,” I said.

“He is,” Evelyn said, looking down at the ledger. “But continue reading …