The United States Postal Service has an unofficial creed that goes something like this: in rain or sun, snow or sleet, we’ll deliver the mail. This also described Sandy. He’d walk no matter what the weather looked like. He didn’t mind if it was forty degrees below zero, with a howling northeaster at his face, or a hundred and ten degrees with a ninety-eight percent humidity.
A few days before Megan’s fourteenth birthday, Sandy took off to town to pick up a part for one of their tractors. Stuart was busy in the fields and their mother, Sue, was shampooing the living room carpets. Megan had to help clean or else she would’ve gone with. Sandy wasn’t one to ever complain and rarely got sick. That morning, though, he threw up in the upstairs toilet.
“You okay?” Megan asked.