Conleth Ferris tossed a cigarette end to the yard. He coughed, then swallowed the phlegm, imagined the inside of his throat like a dirty drainpipe. Across the south field he watched a tail of smoke curl towards the sky and cursed it. He imagined Patrick Harlow, sitting by the flames, boots off, wife humming at the table. While Conleth’s boots gnawed at his heels every step of the day, Harlow sat in the cab of Claas Xerion 5000 tractor, complete...
