Vern stood by the grain bin and watched us load the pickup.He didn’t come over.He didn’t say a word.It was dusk on a Thursday at the end of October. The sky over the stubble fields was the color of a bruise, purple fading to gray. The yard light on the pole by the machine shed had just flickered on. It hummed the way it always did, a sound I’d heard every night for ten years.
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