THE DINNER HOUR WAS long past when Katie returned to the farm. She might have been stiff and sweaty, but she was also ravenous and was looking forward to devouring leftovers while standing over the stove. She had one last round of work with the cows before she was done for the day, but food had to happen first.
Katie did not expect her access to leftovers and the stove to be blocked by empty glass jars scattered over every surface and Brendan wrestling with a multi-quart pot of jam. The eastern sky outside the window was velvety blue with twilight, and the old glass-shaded lamp over the kitchen table glowed warmly.
“Oh no,” Katie said, dropping her bag and keys by the kitchen door. “Who let you do this?”
“What?” Brendan tried to blow his bangs out of his eyes. “Your mom showed me.’
“Yo
