Eight Thousand Gallons of Milk and a Small Blue Ledger

” Evelyn said.

“What about Harold?” I asked.

Evelyn stopped tapping her pen, her face growing still in the grey midday light. “Harold is eighty-one, Martha, and he has not disagreed with a management vote since your husband died.”

“He was there when we built the first silo,” I said. “I will call him.”

At three o’clock, the vinyl booth at the Oak Creek continue reading …