Kent isn’t one to apologize but with Luke
gone, I don’t feel him watching me so closely, I don’t feel his
anger simmering when he’s nearby. By three in the afternoon, the
crowd thins out, more and more time passes between the cars that
stop at our stand, and I stretch out in my chair, the fan aimed my
way as I stir the air in front of my face with a receipt book. Luke
probably got the showerhead up and went back to the vegetables,
he’ll have the whole field picked over before dinner and Kent will
just grumble, he won’t even thank the boy, that’s just how he is.
I’ll thank him myself—in my mind I imagine him coming in, sweaty,
the beginnings of a burn on his sun-kissed skin, and I’d sit him
down in the recliner, climb behind him into the seat, lather his
neck and shoulders with
