I looked at him.
It was the most honest thing he’d said to me since the funeral.
And I realized something uncomfortable.
We were both doing the same thing.
Phil was too proud to ask.
I was too proud to offer.
We’d spent months waiting for the other man to cross the distance between us.
“Saturday,” I repeated.
Phil nodded.
Then he drove away.
—
PART 6: THE LETTER BENEATH THE SEAT
Saturday afternoon, I returned home from work and grabbed a quick lunch.
Before visiting the farm, I needed Dad’s green notebook.
The center-pivot control panel had a history of problems.
Dad had recorded every issue and how he’d solved it.
I’d searched the workshop months earlier but hadn’t found the notebook.
Then I remembered the feed truck.
Dad sometimes kept important things beneath the passenger seat.
I climbed into the cab.
His gloves were still on the dashboard.
