The meadowlark was singing. It was the same one, or its grandchild. The song went up and over the hill, bright and unhurried, as though the whole country had been waiting to hear it.
I took Tom’s notebook out of my pocket. I’d carried it every day for a year. On a fresh page, under the last line he’d written, I put my pencil down and wrote my own.
N80 up. Heavy. Enough for everyone, and then some.
Then I closed it, and put it back, and went to help load the truck.
