The wind off the Ohio hills always carried the scent of damp pine and coal smoke in late October.

I stood by my kitchen window, wrapping breakfast burritos in aluminum foil for the morning rush.

My small metal food cart was parked in the driveway, ready for the early shift workers.

My husband, Thomas, had left for his night shift at the Oakhill furniture workshop two hours ago.

He had been working those late hours for three months, leaving me alone in our two-story house on the outskirts of town.

Through the glass, I saw a figure huddled near my old oak tree at the edge of the yard.

The man was shivering under a thin flannel shirt.

I grabbed a thermos of hot broth and a spare wool blanket from the hallway closet.

The grass was stiff with frost under my sneakers as I walked out.

“You can’t sleep on the bare ground tonight,” I said, my breath misting in the cold air.

The old man looked up, his face lined with deep, dirt-smudged wrinkles.

His pale eyes watered in the freezing wind.

“I don’t want any trouble, ma’am,” he whispered, pulling his knees close to his chest.

“There’s no trouble here,” I said, handing him the thermos. “I’m Kiera. You can sleep on the covered side porch. It will block the wind.”

He took the thermos with trembling hands.

“Thank you, Kiera.”

He drank the broth quickly, his chest rising and falling beneath his thin shirt.

“My name is Arthur,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“Do you have family in Oakhill, Arthur?” I asked.

He shook his head and looked toward the dark road that led to the industrial park.

“I used to work wood,” Arthur said, his voice raspy. “Before Marcus took over the workshop. Before your husband started helping him.”

My chest tightened.

“You know Thomas?” I asked.

Arthur reached deep into his coat pocket.

He pulled out a heavy piece of metal and held it out to me.

It was a brass key, shaped like a crooked cross, tarnished and cold.

“He is not building tables, Kiera,” Arthur said, pressing the cold metal into my palm.