Kevin’s hands pressed hard against the cloth, and for a long moment nobody breathed. Then he pushed back his chair, walked to the mudroom, and came back holding something wrapped in a dish towel. He set it in front of me beside the potatoes. It was a rusted metal tin, no bigger than a loaf of bread, caked with dried clay.

“I found this Tuesday, under the middle stump, when I was pulling roots,” he said, his voice shaking. “I haven’t slept since. I couldn’t open it, Mom. It has Grandpa’s handwriting on the lid.” I looked down. Scratched into the metal with a nail were three words: For Joan, someday. Hank’s hand found my shoulder. Across the table, Caleb whispered, “Grandma, open it.” My thumbs found the rusted latch, and it gave way with a crack.