Eight Thousand Gallons of Milk and a Small Blue Ledger

asphalt lot. The autumn wind had a bite to it, carrying the dry smell of harvested corn from the fields across the county road. One of our delivery trucks was backed up to the bay, and Robert, our driver for the northern route, was stacking empty crates.

“Morning, Martha,” Robert said, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

“How was the run to Eau Claire?” continue reading …