For a long moment, Curtis said nothing. The men from the feed store stood at the edge of his driveway, pretending to inspect a tractor. Finally, he walked to the porch, opened the door, and stepped aside. Inside, the house was dark. A kerosene heater sat in the living room, and every coat he owned was piled on the couch.

“The mill shut down in June,” he said quietly. “The propane company cut me off two weeks ago.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two folded twenties and a five—my money, still creased exactly as I had given it to him. “I didn’t spend it. I couldn’t.” Then he swallowed hard. “Ellen, I don’t have any wood.”

He had charged me rent because he couldn’t bring himself to ask for help. Maybe some part of him hoped I would argue, giving him permission to admit what he needed. Instead, I had thanked him and paid. He meant to explain when I returned the splitter, but pride kept his mouth shut. Arne had always carried everyone. Curtis had never learned how to be carried.

I didn’t make a speech. I pushed the forty-five dollars back into his hand and told him to buy propane. Then I went home, loaded our remaining oak rounds, and returned with Ben. We split wood in Curtis’s yard until dusk, stacking a full cord against his back wall.

The following Saturday, six men from the feed store arrived with their own saws and trucks. Nobody mentioned the receipt or asked Curtis to explain himself. They simply worked until his woodpile was large enough to last through winter.

Mrs. Engebretson’s son-in-law found Curtis a job at the county highway garage, plowing roads. By Christmas, his propane tank was full again. Curtis told me he finally slept warm. He returned Arne’s splitter himself, repainting his brother’s name on the tank.

Ben helped him finish the lettering. Curtis handed me the receipt, torn neatly in half, along with a jar of his late mother’s apple butter. “Family price,” he said with a small smile.

The next October, Curtis split wood beside Ben and me. We prepared five cords for others and one for his own house. Arne’s list still hangs in the lean-to, but now it bears four names. Curtis wrote his own, determined never to be too proud to need help again. Mrs. Engebretson brought pie for everyone. She said Arne would have approved.