"If you wait until they make you," she said, "you walk away with nothing. You know that. You've seen it. You saw it with the Kaspers."
He did not answer that. The wind threw a handful of snow against the window over the sink, hard, like gravel.
"I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "That wasn't fair."
"It's all right."
"It wasn't. I just—you're out there by yourself. With your knee. And that barn. Mom always said that barn—"
"The barn is fine."
"Okay."
"The barn's been fine since nineteen-eleven."
"Okay, Dad." A pause. "How's Fly?"