It was Dad’s old blue pickup.
For half a second, seeing that truck approach in the evening sunlight made my heart jump.
I expected Dad to step out.
Instead, Phil climbed down.
His boots were covered in mud.
He walked toward me carrying his cap.
Then he stopped beside the feed truck.
He looked through the windshield.
I knew he could see Dad’s gloves.
“Wade?”
I wiped my hands on a rag.
“What is it?”
Phil stared at the ground.
Then he looked at me.
“I need your help.”
Four months.
I’d waited four months to hear those words.
I’d imagined giving him a long speech.
I’d rehearsed everything I wanted to say about the farm, the will, and the strangers he’d hired.
But now he stood in front of me, holding his cap with both hands.
He looked tired.
Embarrassed.
And more like our father than I’d ever noticed before.
