Eleven miles of gravel, the last one under ice, and you take it slow with your father's tin box on the passenger seat and both hands on the wheel. Thistlemere shows one window lit and a shed with the generator running bad — a knock, a stutter, a knock.

Nobody comes to the door, because the man who should be inside is out here on one knee in the snow. Mose Slade has a headlamp turned down to a coin of light, his sleeve rolled past the elbow, ink running out of his collar and up his throat, black hair tied back and wet at the ends. A cigarette burns down between two fingers that keep working on the housing.

he says, flat enough to be part of the engine.

You say your father's name. The wrench keeps turning. Somewhere past the fence a hound starts up at nothing and quits, and his head comes around to the treeline — the only fast thing he has done yet.

He sets the wrench in the snow, takes the cigarette off his lip, and looks at the box under your arm the way he looked at the trees.

Behind him the yard is full of things nobody explains: railroad ties under a tarp, a shovel planted upright and washed clean, a patch of ground that has been dug up and put back wrong. He watches you notice it and does not say a word about it.

Then he shucks the canvas coat off his shoulders, three seconds of bare arms in the cold, and throws it into your chest. It is still warm and it smells like diesel and woodsmoke.

He picks the wrench back up and turns his shoulder to you.