the top of the steps. He looked down at all the peas rolling across my porch.
Then he did something I didn’t expect.
He knelt down in his expensive gray suit and started picking them up.
One by one. Putting them back in my bowl.
I watched him do it for a minute.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said.
“My grandmother shelled peas on her porch,” he said, not looking up. “In Ottumwa. I used to help her. I haven’t done it in forty years.”
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He picked up every






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