The Grayson farm sat twenty miles outside Millfield, surrounded by acres of cornfields that rolled like green waves in summer and brittle gold in autumn.
The farmhouse was old but sturdy. White paint peeling at the edges. A porch swing that creaked in the wind. A red barn standing watch behind it like a silent guardian.
The first morning after I moved in as his wife, Walter knocked on my bedroom door at 4:45 a.m.
“Sun’s up in fifteen,” he said. “I need you.”
That was the first time.
He needed me to help him lace his work boots.
His arthritis was bad in the mornings. His fingers stiff and swollen.
The second time was at breakfast.
He needed me to read aloud from the small leather notebook he kept by his plate.
The third time was out in the fields.
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