The coffee was the same brand it had always been. Two dollars and forty-nine cents a can from the Save-On-Mart on Highway 55. Rose opened it the way she opened everything: without ceremony.
She drank it on the porch. The porch of the farmhouse she was still legally allowed to occupy because the bank hadn't figured out how to evict someone who didn't have anyone to serve the papers to. Tom had left. The boy was in Texas. The bank was slow. Banks are always slow. She looked out at the field. Eighteen degrees Celsius at eight in the morning, which felt warm for June but was normal...
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