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Mrs. Wolfe’s burden is different but no less heavy. Her husband isn’t gone, not officially, just missing. But the waiting, the not-knowing, gnaws at her in a way that’s written plainly across her face. Together, they stand like mirrors of each other, bound by the cruel ways life has stripped them of the men they thought would always be there.

Then there’s Clyde Lewis, escorting his mother down the steps while his father lingers behind.

Clyde has the same boyish awkwardness I remember from high school. His white-blond hair has darkened through the years leaving it a spun-golden blond mop of hair, perfectly styled on his head. Although I can’t see them from this distance, I know his eyes are a dark, cornflower blue. The exact opposite of my light-brown ones. He’s always been on the thin side, a runner’s body if you will. The years have been easy on him as he ages. Not everyone in this town is so lucky. Many of our classmates traveled down roads that led them to neighboring towns full of nothing but trouble. Clyde was one of the lucky ones. He went away for college. He got his education, and instead of using that education to start a new life, far away from this town, he came back, working as the town vet.

Clyde’s eyes catch mine like he was already watching. He lifts a hand in a shy wave, and something about it pulls at me. Something old, familiar and uncomplicated. In this moment, he reminds me of teenage Clyde. He was friendly but at times he seemed unsure of his friendliness. I give him a small wave before turning away. I don’t have time for small-town niceties or polite nostalgia.

I have more pressing matters to attend to.

Let them worship their God, blind to the evils He allows to flourish.

As I step into the hardware store, the bell chimes overhead, its hollow ring echoing in the quiet, dim-lit space. This place doesn’t offer much, but it has just enough for what I need, supplies for a project that’ll keep me busy during my next few days off. Winter’s closing fast, and I’ve got a small window before the cold locks everything down. And that just won’t do.

I grab a rickety cart and steer it toward the animal feed.

“Hey there, Lydia.” Roger’s voice drifts from behind me. I glance over my shoulder and catch him in a faded apron, a limp rag in one hand, a faint grin already curling his lips.

I nod, keeping my expression flat. “Hi, Roger.”

His smile falters like he expected more. I bite back a chuckle. It’s like these people never learn.

“Didn’t expect anyone this morning,” he says, shoving the rag into his back pocket. “Figured the whole town would be at the rec center, welcoming the new pastor and his family.”

I didn’t even know we had a new pastor. Not that it’s a surprise. Since my father’s accident, the church has limped along under Stanley Archer. My father’s so-called associate pastor. Really just a glorified altar boy, if you ask me, but we’re not Catholic, so I guess that title doesn’t apply.

“Well, you know what they say about assuming?” I toss the words out like bait.

Roger squints. “Pardon?”

I wave it off. “Forget it. Anyway, I’m not joining any celebration or welcoming committee.”

“Shame,” he says, voice going soft. “You were so involved with the church back when you were little. I even heard talk about you possibly taking your father’s place at the pulpit when the time was right.”

“I’m the last person who would follow my father’s lead, Roger.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know where things went wrong with you, child.”

Neither he, nor any other person has a clue what’s wrong with me. Especially when they chose not to figure it out. Like so many, Roger’s just one of the blind ones, walking with his eyes closed and calling it faith.

“People change,” I respond, giving him a tight nod before I move down the aisle. If I’d known he’d be chatty, I would’ve driven the hour to Tractor Supply. Community support be damned. Where was my support back then?

I reach for the feed bags, lean down, and start hauling them one by one into the cart. I’m straightening up when a voice behind me makes me jump.

“You could have asked for help,” Clyde says, stepping into view, his tie loose and the top buttons of his shirt undone.

I smirk. “If I’d known you were around, maybe. But asking Roger for help? That’s not my style.”

“What’s wrong with Mr. Tucker?” he asks, slipping into that same polite cadence we were raised on.

See what I mean? Still following the script. Still saying “Mr. Tucker” like we’re kids afraid of disrespecting a man who barely notices we’re grown.

“It’s nothing,” I say, brushing him off. “What are you doing here? Thought you’d be oohing and aahing over the new preacher.”

“Told Mr. Tucker I’d cover for him so he could go with his wife. I’ve suggested closing during church hours, but he’s stubborn as a bull. Won’t budge.”

“Old dogs don’t like new tricks, Clyde. Didn’t they teach you that at that fancy vet school you spent thousands on? I bet the animals love all those degrees hanging on your wall.”

“Whoa,” he says, hands lifting in mock surrender. “Who peed in your Cheerios this morning? Too many bedpans last night? Get a little something under your nails?”