He walked out the door with nothing but the clothes he’d worn to the fields that morning.
“Even left them my name,” he said. “Though I suppose they hadn’t much use for that and found another soon enough.”
I held the bottle to the flame to see how much was left and handed it over. Smiling, he took it, drank and handed it back with a nod. Downriver some, the train crossed, its clicking wheels bouncing softly off the water top.
“Hardly a tale, really,” he said. “How’s yours?”
I told him it wasn’t much more than that, and drank.