Mr. Whitlock set a thick folder on the hood of my dead car. “Your grandfather’s condition is simple,” he said. “You must live in his house for one full year, and you must never give a single dollar of his estate to your father or his family.” I stared at him. “Why would he say that about my dad?” Mr. Whitlock hesitated, then pulled a sealed letter from his jacket.

Before he could hand it over, tires screeched at the end of the alley. A familiar gray truck stopped, and my father stepped out with his wife and stepbrother behind him, all smiling as if nothing had happened. “Ethan, son,” he called warmly, “we have been looking everywhere for you.” Mr. Whitlock calmly slipped the letter back into his jacket. “Mr. Mitchell,” he said, “you are right on time.”