I was two dollars short at the garden center. The bag of bone meal I needed for the roses, and I was digging through my pockets like a fool.
The woman behind me—maybe eighty, like me—tapped my shoulder. She handed the cashier a five and said, 'Cover the rest.'
I started to protest, but she just shook her head. 'Someone did it for me once. Pay it forward.'
I thanked her and walked out. In the truck, I sat for a minute, thinking about my brother.
We used to do the crossword together, his pen blue, mine black. We'd argue over answers but never raise our voices.
I remembered my grandmother's card-game circle—all of us kids around her kitchen table, learning rummy. My brother and I always ended up partners.
That was before the fight over the vineyard. Before twelve years of silence.
I drove home, put the bone meal by the roses, and went inside. I picked up the phone and dialed his number.
He answered on the second ring. We didn't talk long. But we both agreed to meet for coffee next week.