Dale turned his cap over in his hands, and I noticed they were shaking. “It’s not about the planting,” he said. “Three days ago I went to see Dad’s lawyer, Mr. Brandt, to ask about selling. He closed his office door, looked me in the eye, and told me nothing on that land could be sold until you read what Dad left for you.” I felt the hair rise on my arms.

Dale pointed at the dashboard. “He said it’s inside Dad’s left glove.” I had sat in that cab for weeks and never once touched them. Now I reached through the open window, and the stiff leather crackled in my hand. Something hard was pressed deep inside the fingers, wrapped in paper. Dale whispered, “Open it, Curtis. Before I lose my nerve and tell you what I did.”