Hazen picked up the box with one large calloused
hand. With the other he reached into his vest and pulled out a thick
packet. Our share of the money that was supposed to take us from Maine
to Oregon. The money that might now keep Mother alive for a few more
months until the autumn leaves rustled crimson against the sky. He
threw the packet onto the ground at my feet. Then Hazen turned his
daughter Maeve around.
He did not turn back.
But Maeve Easter did.
