Dorothy Holt roosted in the wooden swing on the front porch of her clapboard farmhouse. Her wicker basket full of multi-colored yarn beside her. In her hands she held two crochet needles. Knit one, pearl two. She'd just begun the process of chain stitching a new scarf she'd present to her nearby neighbor Mildred Tidwinkle for her upcoming birthday. But, that wouldn't be until winter, when the first snow fell.

A doting mother, Dorothy was not overly concerned her son Alex had run away from home. She figured he'd return directly, soon as he had his pout. After all, being Saturday the boy did have a Little League game that afternoon. And, Dorothy knew Alex wouldn't miss the chance to play baseball. The preoccupation was his favorite pastime. Besides, it seemed Alex disappeared for a while every time he and his father had their special little chats. For all his shenanigans, Alex knew which side his bread was buttered on.

Roger Holt parked his tractor in the shed. His chore of plowing a half acre field completed, he studied the western sky. The threat of rain prevailed. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled. Around the small farm something always needed tending. The fence their milk cow knocked down called his name. He reached for the wire cutters and the spool of wire needed to accomplish the project. In a jiffy that task would be completed. There was still no sign of Alex.

Corn grew in the lower forty. Chickens roamed free behind the house. Eggs for breakfast were plentiful. So was fowl for supper. Soon, the potatoes planted in the ditch would need hoeing and there were weeds to pull from the garden. Roger decided he'd leave those chores for Alex. Dorothy would can whatever vegetables were ready. Thereafter, she'd store them in Mason jars in the cellar.

Roger had spent ten years acquiring and working his parcel of land. Some of the soil had been eroded by the wind and rain. He would not have felt miserable about saddling his family up and riding away from it. He expected sooner or later that would probably happen. As he exited the shed, Sheriff Morgan pulled up in his black and white cruiser unexpectedly and chewing on a straw.

Roger approached the lawman. Their exchange was friendly when he asked, "Mornin', John. What brings you out this way?"

"Looking for Alex. Need to talk to him about a matter that occurred over at the O'Leary place a little while ago," the sheriff responded.

"The boy ain't here, John," Roger told him, "we had us a little discussion earlier and he strolled off. What's he got himself into now?"

"Margaret O'Leary reported a broken window in their home when they returned back from Culver's Feed Store. Didn't claim anything seemed to be taken from the house but said she saw a boy looked like Alex from afar in the vicinity of the residence," the sheriff replied.

"Oh my!" Dorothy gasped. Overhearing the men talking, she'd joined them.

"Now, Dorothy, don't you fret. This don't sound like something Alex would get mixed up in, but need to check it out anyhow. Bring him down to the station when he comes home, Roger. See if we can clarify this misunderstanding," the sheriff remarked.

"I'm sure the boy's got a real good explanation," Dorothy stated.

"He better have!" Roger promised fidgeting with his belt.

Quickly noticing his meaning, Dorothy said, "Roger, you wouldn't!"

"If Alex has gotten himself in the middle of something as serious as breaking the O'Leary's window I most certainly would," Roger assured her, that sort of mischievousness not something he'd oblige from his offspring.

Without another word, Sheriff Morgan returned to his car and drove away. The news left Roger and Dorothy gawking at one another in disbelief. Just another day on the farm. With his wire and cutters in hand, Roger walked off to mend the fence the holstein knocked down. He surveyed the horizon and wondered where his young son had gotten off to? It wasn't like Alex to be gone this long.