She handed me a plastic bag, which contained spaghetti, a loaf of French bread, and cans of tomato sauce, then I followed her out to a brown Ford Ranger truck. “This would be my transportation,” she said, opening the door by remote.

I threw my pack in the truck’s bed and climbed in the passenger side.

Analise turned the key in the ignition and the Moulin Rouge soundtrack came on. She reached over and turned off the CD player.

“I live just a mile from here.” She backed out of the stall then pulled a U-turn in the middle of Main Street.

I thought back to the young woman’s excuse for being late. “Rush-hour traffic?” I said.

She nodded. “It’s code for her boyfriend. His name is Rush.”

Analise’s home was surprisingly large and beautiful, a two-story Folk Victorian house painted pale yellow with white trim, dark red shutters, and a ground-level wraparound porch. A large American flag hung from one of the porch’s posts.

“Your home is beautiful,” I said. “My wife would have loved it.”

“You’re married?”

“I was. She passed away.”

Analise looked at me with real sympathy. “I’m so very sorry.”

She pulled the truck up to the side of the home, and we both got out. I pulled my pack from the truck’s bed while Analise waited for me. As we approached the front porch, a little girl came running out. “Mama!”

“Hi, Case.” Analise squatted down and hugged the girl. “How was school?”

“Boring,” she said. “And Kyle picked his nose in front of everyone.”

“Well that doesn’t sound boring,” she said, standing back up. She looked at me and smiled. “The glamorous life of a mom.”

“Who are you?” Casey said to me.

“I’m Alan.”

“Alan?”

“Mr. Christoffersen,” Analise said.

“Hi, Mr. Christoffersen. Are you going to have dinner with us?”

“I think I am,” I said.

She smiled. “Good.” She turned and ran into the house.

Analise and I followed after her. I could hear the girl shouting, “Christian, Mommy’s home. And she brought someone.”

Analise turned to me, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Sorry, it’s big news when someone visits. We don’t get many visitors this far from Earth.”

We stepped inside the house.

“I’m sorry, it’s messy. I’ve been working extra lately.”

“This is really beautiful,” I said.

She smiled. “Thank you. The guest room is right here next to the den. You’re probably tired. If you’d like to rest or wash up, it will take me about forty minutes or so to get dinner on.”

“When does your husband get home?”

“You never know,” she said. “The work of a farmer never stops. Working for family makes it worse. I’ve stopped waiting for him.”