His grandmother’s house stood at the edge of River Creek, a small Kentucky town that smelled of soil, rain, and wood being burned in the wrong months. It had a white porch, two rocking chairs, and a bell on the front door that had never worked properly. His grandmother, Louisa Bender, always wore dresses with tiny flowers on them and had hands that seemed made for kneading dough and holding faces when those faces gave way. She had raised three children, buried a husband, paid off debts that were not hers, and laughed with that sound women make when they know very well what each of their smiles has cost.