I stood on the back porch with a cup of coffee.
At five to six, headlights came slowly up Ridge Road through the fog. A little white car. The county seal on the door.
Tyler Ostrowski parked on the side of the road, at the end of Dad’s driveway. He got out. He was wearing a county jacket over a sweatshirt. He had his clipboard. He looked half asleep. He looked a little nervous too.
He walked up the driveway toward me.
“Morning,” he said. “I’m here. Like he asked.”
“Want some coffee?”
This time, he said yes.
I poured him a cup from the big urn. He held it with both hands.
“Where’s your father?”
I pointed. Out in the fog, in the bean rows, you could just barely make out a shape. A thin old man in a faded blue shirt, bent over with his bucket. Picking beans. Like any other day.
