My mom gets up and makes Kyle a plate, while my brother slides into his chair. He plops twenty bucks on the table in front of me. “Thanks for your help.”

“Sure,” I grunt, wishing I’d never made a big deal about it in the first place. I tuck the bill into my pocket anyway. My rent fund can use it.

Mom sets a plate in front of my brother, and then takes her seat again. “Since Kyle’s home, we might as well talk about this winter.” My father’s scowl tells me I won’t like whatever she’s about to say. “Your father is having back surgery. Soon. He’s going to be out of commission for months.”

“Weeks,” my father corrects gruffly.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a spinal fusion. Major surgery, with a long recovery time.”

Spinal fusion. Yeesh. I’ll be googling that later, but it already sounds dreadful. I feel a rare pang of sympathy for Dad. But when I look up at him, the steely look in his eyes asks for no pity.

“Okay,” I say, draining my glass. “You know Kyle and I will pitch in.” I give my brother a sideways glance.

“Yeah, we’ve got this,” he says. “It’s good that you’re doing this before calving and planting.”

“That’s the idea,” my mother says. “It’s going to be a rough time for a little while. But I knew you’d both pitch in. It’s the Shipley way.”

“Right,” I say, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “I can give you weekend afternoons and Mondays. I don’t go to the office on Mondays.”

“What if you found a job closer to home instead?” my father asks.

Wait, what? “You think that’s so easy to do?”

“It has to be easier than driving clear across Vermont to work that desk job. And you’re pouring coffee in the mornings. Seems like you could save yourself a lot of trouble and take a job at the hardware store in town.”

“So you’d have me quit the Busy Bean and bail on Audrey and Zara? Is that the Shipley way?” The Bean is owned by Audrey Shipley, my cousin’s wife. If my mom was gonna pull the family card, it seemed worth mentioning.

My father shrugs, as if I’m being ridiculous. “Audrey can find someone else to sell muffins, no?”

“How about you let me figure out the best way to get paid?” I ask, and each word is a little chip of ice. The undertone is perfectly clear, too—if he’s not paying me, then he can shut the hell up. “I just offered you every spare hour of my week. Is that not good enough?”

“It’s great,” Kyle says quickly. “We’ll figure this thing out, right?”

“Right. But you’ll have to be thoughtful about your schedule. Baling those oats is a two-man job, so you’re going to have to make yourself available when I’m off work.”

“No problem,” he says.

“That means baling and handling the fences even when there’s football on TV.”