A Winning Ticket by J. Michael Stewart Page B

constant companions. They were with him when he woke in the morning and still there when he crawled into bed at night.
    The fact was, they were not even squeaking by anymore. They were drowning. If something didn’t change soon, they would lose the farm—and Benjamin knew it.
    His brother was a different story, though.
    Harrison lived in a world of perpetual denial, and he didn’t seem to be worried about the prospect of losing the farm at all. Sometimes Benjamin wondered if his brother even cared. Harrison never had loved the farm like Benjamin did—that was obvious. Maybe he would be happy to have the county take the farm, and then he would be free to move on. He had often talked about selling the farm and moving somewhere warm. Maybe losing their home was Harrison’s way of hastening his retirement from farming.
    Benjamin took two large bowls from the cupboard and filled them with generous servings of the venison stew. He topped each bowl of stew with two of the fresh biscuits and then carried both bowls to the small dining table that sat in the nook just to the right of the kitchen. The dining area was barely big enough to contain the small wooden table. The rectangular table had four place settings, two on the sides and one on each end. The two brothers always sat at the ends of the table. The side chairs were reserved for guests, which they rarely had. The last person to sit at the table other than Benjamin and Harrison had been a distant cousin from Texas who had driven up to hunt deer about five years ago.
    Benjamin returned to the kitchen and retrieved two glasses of milk, utensils, and some napkins. Just as he was placing the remaining items on the table, Harrison opened the front door and walked in.
    “Whew! Man, it’s cold outside,” he announced boisterously. “Wind must be blowing thirty or forty miles an hour already. Snow’s really coming down, too.”
    Benjamin looked up from the table. “Glad you’re back. I was starting to get worried. Everything go alright?”
    “Yeah, no problems.” Harrison dusted the snow off his hat and coat, then removed both and hung them on the coat rack that stood next to the front door. Snow had crept in below the edge of his hat and dusted his hair, exaggerating the salt and pepper color that the brothers now shared.
    “How is the new calf doing?” Benjamin asked.
    “Doing well, I think. Seems to be eating plenty, and she’s up and walking around now.”
    One of the cows had given birth two days ago, and it had been touch and go for a while. They had been unsure if the calf would survive, so they had called the local veterinarian to come and assist them—another bill they could not afford.
    “That’s good,” Benjamin replied as he folded two of the napkins and placed one under the edge of each bowl. “Dinner’s ready.”
    “Thanks. It smells great.” Harrison removed his boots, and then walked down the long hallway that connected two of the bedrooms and the bathroom to the living room and kitchen. He opened the door to the bathroom and washed his hands and face in the sink. He reemerged a minute later, pulled his chair back from the table, and sat down. He always sat at the end of the table closest to the front door. Benjamin always sat with his back to the kitchen.
    Both brothers bowed their heads for a moment in silent prayer—a habit their mother instilled in them and insisted on with the religious fervor of a traveling evangelist. Even after she died, they could not give it up, although Harrison had once made the suggestion—but Benjamin had rejected it.
    “You did a good job with the stew…tastes great,” Harrison said as he took his first bite.
    “Thanks,” Benjamin replied as he dipped one of the biscuits in the broth and took a bite himself. As much as he disliked what the stew represented, he had to admit it did taste good.
    Both brothers continued to eat in silence for several minutes. Finally, Harrison spoke, “How much snow are they