Derek stood frozen beside his truck, staring at the haymow door, where a teenage girl balanced on a ladder with a small brush in her hand. Chloe was painting the last white curve of the eight. Beneath her steady hand, E.H. 1958 glowed against the fresh red. Derek’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Kelsey slid out of the passenger seat and quietly took his arm.

Then Derek turned to me, and his eyes were wet. “Mom, I need to tell you why I really did this,” he whispered. “It was never about buyers.” Before I could answer, Kelsey pulled an envelope from her purse and pressed it into my palm. The return address read First Prairie Bank, and the word on the front was stamped in red: FINAL.