Fencing pliers rested on the floor.
The cab smelled of diesel fuel, ground corn, and peppermint candies.
Dad always carried peppermints, supposedly because he liked them.
We all knew they helped disguise the tobacco he kept chewing after his doctor told him to stop.
I touched the steering wheel.
For a moment, I could almost hear him telling me to stop wasting daylight.
The windshield began to fog.
I hadn’t realized I was crying.
Eventually, I started the engine.
It caught almost immediately.
I unplugged the block heater, carefully coiled the cord the way Dad always had, and drove the truck eleven miles to my place near Elba.
I didn’t move the gloves.
I couldn’t.
Theresa came outside when I parked beside our barn.
She looked at the truck.
“Well,” she said gently, “at least it’s paid for.”
I tried to laugh.
“Probably the only thing on that farm that is.”
