Warren stood in the middle of the gravel road, one hand raised, his hat trembling slightly. The crowd fell silent. Curtis climbed down from his truck and walked toward him. “Sir, you need to step aside,” he said. Warren shook his head. “I need to say something to my son,” he answered, and his voice cracked. Ben got out of the escort pickup, jaw tight, and stopped ten feet away.

Warren reached into his coat and pulled out a folded paper. “This is a deed,” he said. “I had my attorney draw it up last night.” He looked at me, then at the house, then at his son. “I have been wrong for nine years, and I do not know how to say it any other way.” The paper shook in his hand. Ben did not move. Then Warren held it out, and I saw my own name printed across the top.