Black Single Dad Went Looking for Work on a Farm — He Didn't Know a Millionaire Would Make Him Rich
Chapter 2
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Luke was 33 years old. He was a tall black man with broad shoulders and the heavy wrists of someone who had framed barns, dug post holes, and worked cattle chutes since he was a teenager. He had been raised on a small cow-calf operation in Augusta County, where his father taught him to rebuild a tractor engine before he was old enough to drive one. His forearms were crossed with thin white scars from barbed wire. His olive-drab work shirt was stained with dust at the seams, the cuffs rolled twice. A week of stubble darkened his square, tired jaw.He had spent the whole morning knocking on doors.The first farm outside Mount Sidney had a hand-painted sign nailed to the mailbox post that read, "Help wanted, experienced only." The owner, a heavy-set man in a seed cap, came down off his porch, looked Luke over from his boots to his face, and said the position had been filled that morning. Luke thanked him and walked back to the truck. In the side mirror, as he pulled away, he could still see the sign on the post.The second farm belonged to an older couple who spoke to him through the screen door. The wife said they only hired folks they knew, folks from church. The husband never looked up from his newspaper.At the third farm, nobody opened the door at all. A curtain moved in the front window, then fell still.Luke did not argue with any of them. He had learned long ago that arguing with a closed door only wasted daylight, and Toby had been watching from the truck each time. Luke wanted his son to remember a father who kept his head up, not one who stood in somebody's yard raising his voice.But now it was past noon. Toby had eaten the last peanut butter sandwich more than two hours ago. The cooler in the truck bed held nothing but melted ice and a half-empty jug of water.Luke had never stood on a street corner with his hand out. He had never taken a relief check or asked a stranger for a dime. Pride had carried him through the hospital, the funeral, and the long, cold months that followed. But pride did not put milk in a child's cup.He glanced at the gas gauge. The needle had sunk below the red line 20 minutes ago. The engine temperature was climbing again, the way it always did on long grades in summer heat. Luke kept his right hand resting lightly on Toby's knee. Whenever the truck jolted over a pothole, his thumb moved in small, steady circles—an old habit from the nights in the hospital waiting room when Toby could not sleep.