Ollie Evans, lured by a squeaky porch swing and the roasted-nut aroma of chicory coffee, opened the screen door. He found his parents gently rocking, sharing a wool blanket and a cup of coffee, as an orange sun rose above the dew-glistened potato fields.

The cup in his mother’s hand, Ollie noticed, was a misshapen toad-green mug he had made in industrial arts class in the seventh grade. He chuckled. “Where did you find it?”

His mother shrugged, wisps of faded brown hair resting on her shoulders. She sipped. Steam swirled in the cool air.

Ollie was no longer a little boy. He was six feet tall, give or take an inch, with wavy brown hair and caramel eyes, a gift from his mother. The dimple on his chin mirrored the one on his father. As Ollie took a seat on the porch steps, an unsettling feeling that he should be somewhere else filled his belly. It wasn’t unusual to be home in the fall. After all, most of the schools would soon be on potato recess. Unfortunately, his harvest break was more permanent.

“I’m proud of you,” his father said.

“For what?” Ollie asked.

“For putting family first.” He accepted the mug from his wife and drank. “I’m sorry you’re still home.” He nudged the cane hanging from the side of the swing. “It wasn’t fair that you had to stay.”

“That’s okay. The farm’s important. And so are you.”

Three years ago, his father’s muddy boot slipped off the tractor’s clutch while attempting to pull out a stump. The machine flipped backward, pinning his father’s right leg, shattering his hip, and snapping a femur in two places. Ollie, unable to lift the tractor, dug him out with a hand trowel from the garden shed. His mother had called for an ambulance and helped by scraping earth with her bare hands, ripping off three of her fingernails. It had been a painful recovery, including two surgeries and agonizing rounds of physical therapy. And now his father, held together with screws and wire, was able to perform some of the farm duties, except for plowing and crop-dusting. He was no longer able to work the pedals, the strain too much for his brittle leg. His father didn’t seem to mind moving as slowly as a tortoise, the constant ache in his joints, or the pronounced limp in his walk. It was the inability to fly that had stolen his spirit, his once-dark hair turning gray with the passing of days spent grounded, as if the lower altitude accelerated the aging process.

His mother adjusted the blanket covering their laps, took the mug from her husband, and handed him the newspaper.

Ollie’s father slid the rubber band from the paper, wrapped it around his forefinger, and shot it at Ollie.

Ollie ducked, even though it whizzed two feet over his head.