The ground was smearing instead of crumbling.
Anyone who knew that land would have waited several more days.
I almost turned into the driveway.
My hand moved toward the indicator.
Then I remembered that Phil had hired strangers instead of calling me.
He’d chosen someone from Kansas over his own brother.
I lowered my hand.
And drove past.
I’m not proud of that decision.
But it’s the truth.
That evening, Theresa found me sitting in Dad’s feed truck after dark.
The driver’s door was open.
I hadn’t even turned on the cab light.
“They planted it too wet,” I told her.
She climbed onto the running board.
“Can it be fixed?”
“Some of it.”
“Then why aren’t you helping?”
I looked away.
“He didn’t ask.”
She put her arm around my shoulders.
We sat quietly beneath the yard light.
Finally, she whispered, “Your father would hate seeing you two like this.”
