Later that same year, Brance became other.
His father’s duties as a minister often kept him out past nightfall. As the oldest son, Brance had to wait up for his father’s return—he was expected to wipe down the horses, feed them, and clean off the buggy while his father relaxed by the fire. There was no greeting when Amos arrived, and no assistance or words of thanks, either. It was a duty Brance had to do. Only once the horses were tended to and the buggy put away could he clean up himself and slink off to bed.
By late November, the wind had turned cold and the first hint of snow tinted the air. The night’s heavy rainfall chilled the darkness and muddied the dirt roads; Brance’s breath rose like a mist before him as he dried off the horses with an old blanket, his mind back in the house
