The older man did not respond verbally, but turned and peered back over his spectacles.

“I’m new to town and looking for work. Do you anyone who’s hiring?”

The spectacles were pushed up a nosebridge. “‘New to town’ I can see. I’d thought a young man like you’d be over in France right now.”

Wally placed his right index and middle fingers underneath his eyeballs by way of indication. “Bad eyes.”

“I see. Well, you won’t want to be workin’ in the mill, I’ll tell you that much.” The shopkeeper held up his right hand to Wally’s sight for the first time, and displayed the absence of his pinkie. “That darn saw coulda took my whole hand off.”

Wally looked away, to the paintbrushes. “I’m sorry to see that.”

“No need to be sorry, young man. The shopclerk’s life is the easier life, I assure you.” Now the ‘shopclerk’ took a step back towards Wally and reached out his four-fingered hand. “Mister Evans.”

“Wally Bayer.”

Evans gave one last, gentle squeeze and released. “Well, Mr. Bayer, you just might be glad you’ve got the bad eyes. It’s hard as heck finding able-bodied young men ‘round these parts.” He stared down at the strangely soft hand. “You ever milked a cow?”

“Sure,” Wally told him.

“Well, you probably won’t need to, but I’ve got a regular customer by the name of Frank Darcy, a dairy farmer. He’s been needin’ a hand, now that his boy’s over in France.”