He rubbed his hands together. They were stained brown with soil that would never come out.
“That winter was bad,” he said. “Real bad. There was a week in February when we had nothing in the house but a box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter. Marta was giving Kristin her share. I watched her do it. Pretending she wasn’t hungry. Pretending she’d already eaten.”
I didn’t remember that. I was five. I didn’t remember any of it.
“And one morning,” Dad said, “I opened the front door to go look for work. And there was a box on the porch.”
He stopped. He looked down at his hands.
“Potatoes. Onions. Canned beans and canned tomatoes and a big bag of flour. A ham. A whole ham. And a note. No name. Just a note that said, From the neighbors. Pass it on.”
Brent was staring at him.
