Don is seventy. He and his wife, Barb, have farmed the quarter section across the road from us for my whole married life. Don is short and barrel-chested, with hands like baseball mitts and a seed corn cap he’s worn so long the bill has gone soft. When Morris and I were first married and didn’t know anything, Don was the one who showed Morris how to set a planter and showed me how to read a grain moisture tester.
He answered on the second ring.
“Anna.”
“Don. Truman threw the combine keys into the beans.”
There was a pause about two seconds long.
“Where’d they land?”
Not what happened, or why, or is he crazy. Just where did they land.
“West of the third terrace, I think. Maybe a hundred yards in. Maybe more.”
“Stay put,” Don said. “Don’t go wading around in there and trampling things. I’ll make some calls.”
He hung up.
I climbed back up onto the combine step and sat down. Ethan climbed down from the cart tractor and came over slowly, hands in his pockets.
“Mrs. Lindqvist, I’m sorry. I should’ve done something.”
“Like what, Ethan?”
“I don’t know. Grabbed his arm.”
“He’s six-three and he’s my brother-in-law. You did fine.”
He kicked at the dirt. “My dad says Truman’s been weird since August.”
“Weird how?”
Ethan looked uncomfortable. “Just weird. Selling stuff. He sold his four-wheeler. My dad saw it on Facebook Marketplace.”
I filed that away.
Then I called Mabel.
Mabel Lindqvist is Morris and Truman’s mother. She’s seventy-three, a small, upright widow who lives in a white bungalow in Hampton with a tidy garden and a cat named Pastor. Henry was supposed to be at a friend’s birthday party until four, and I’d planned to pick him up after we finished the beans.
“Mabel, could you pick Henry up from the Petersons’ party and keep him tonight? Something’s come up at the farm.”
She didn’t ask what. There was a short pause, and then her voice came back low and tired.
“Which son did it?” she asked.
I closed my eyes.
“The one who’s still alive, Mabel.”
“I’ll get Henry,” she said. “Don’t you worry about him. I’ll make him meatloaf.”
She hung up. She didn’t ask what Truman had done. I think she already knew it was something.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.