Dennis held out a cream-colored envelope with Dad’s crooked handwriting on the front. “Mr. Hollis gave me this after the will,” he said. “Dad told him I could only open it if I ever came to you for help.” He swallowed hard. “Clint, the crop’s dying. I don’t know what I’m doing out there. Will you save it?”

I didn’t answer him. I was staring at the envelope. It wasn’t addressed to Dennis. It said Clint and Dennis, together, underlined twice. My hands weren’t steady as I tore it open. Dennis leaned closer, his muddy boots almost touching mine. The first line was written in pencil, the way Dad wrote everything. Boys, if you’re reading this together, then my plan finally worked.