White obscured the man as he waddled down the old dirt path, which was disappearing under the snowfall. I brought the axe down one last time before I paused, stepping back in reflex as the wood split, each half tumbling in an unpredictable direction. Headlights from a car in town illuminated the area behind the man, silhouetting a look of defeat, hunched shoulders and hands shoved deep into the pockets of a long coat. My boots crunched in the frost that laid under the gathering snow as I walked over to the split-rail fence, seeing the man angle his direction toward my farm. He shuffled up to the other side, standing so only the wood of the fence separated us.
“Mr. Jon Cooper?” said the man, extending a hand over my fence. The high-pitched drawl common in southern West Virginia was absent from his voice. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“And who may you be?” I said, conscious of my own accent, gripping his hand and keeping the axe at my side.
“William Baldwin,” said the man. “I work in town. Your wife around?”
“Miranda went into town to get some food before the snow hits too bad,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
“Curious,” said William Baldwin. “She is a frequent customer of mine.”
“You’re the fortune teller out in town she likes to amuse herself by talkin’ to,” I said, my hand still resting on the handle of the axe, ice clotting to its iron head on the ground. “She talks big of you.”
“Yes,” said William Baldwin. “Your wife is who I came to talk about. May I come around the fence?”
“Jus’ come o’er it,” I said. “Easier that way.”
The small man looked at the three beams, doubt written across his face. I extended an arm, ushering him over with the other one, axe falling uninhibited to the ground. He clambered over, wincing and muttering about a cramp in his slim thigh, almost toppling at the apex of his short climb; the only thing that stopped him
