Eight Thousand Gallons of Milk and a Small Blue Ledger

lid, the metal latch clicking shut in the quiet yard.

A transport truck from the local co-op sat idling fifty yards away, its engine low and rumbling.

Gregory turned toward me, his hands deep in his coat pockets.

“The house will go to the bank by the end of the month,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“There is nothing left for me here,” he said.