Gerald looked up at the sky, wiping his hands on his overalls. The rain is coming again. It will be arduous, and the crops will probably fail. However, after that comes the season of plenty. The crops will grow. They’d better. Marcus, his son, walked along carrying two milk buckets. They exchanged glances. “Come here,” Gerald said, taking off his tattered Stetson and dropping it on the porch beside him. “We have to talk” “I’ve got to get the milk over to the...
