For a long moment, Curtis said nothing. The men from the feed store had gathered at the edge of his driveway, pretending to look at a tractor. Then he walked to his porch, opened the door, and stepped aside so I could see in. The house was dark. A kerosene heater sat in the middle of the living room, and every coat he owned was piled on the couch.

“Mill shut down in June,” he said quietly. “Propane company cut me off two weeks ago.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two folded twenties and a five, my money, still creased the way I had handed it to him. “I didn’t spend it. I couldn’t.” Then he swallowed hard and said the words his brother never had to hear. “Ellen, I don’t have any wood.”