Kersey, Colorado, was fifteen miles east of Greeley, a tiny town at the edge of the eastern plains, and in all the years Charlotte had worked for Dave Larsen she had not been there until now: his seventy-year old farmhouse with the wide overhang sheltering a narrow front porch. The grass was freshly mowed, though it had a weedy look that said it had not been mowed before that for some time.
Assembled in the backyard were three of Dave’s elderly relatives and Charlotte and her coworkers, who didn’t know yet if they were still employed. Dave’s son, Billy, had closed the restaurant temporaily, and Charlotte, who had started off as waitress but now had long been manager, had not asked him. She hardly knew him. Billy had grown up with his mother in Wyoming, and Dave had not had much contact with him. Only in recent years had the father and son begun to get acquainted.
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