One Sunday evening, after everyone had left, I opened José’s notebook to a fresh page.
For decades it had held the record of what things cost us.
The well.
The roof.
The trees.
The land.
I picked up a pen and added one more entry.
Sunday.
Four visitors.
They knocked.
I looked at those two words for a moment.
Then I closed the notebook, slipped the farm key into my pocket, and went inside my own house.
