Mark stepped out into the dusty dirt, his blue linen shirt open at the collar and his neck red from the sun.

“You stranded my mother at a hotel desk over a forty-eight-hundred-dollar bill just to prove a point,” he said, his voice rising over the idling engine.

Ben pulled his heels back under his bushel basket, staring down at his spotless white shoelaces.

Carl stopped with a thirty-pound wooden corn crate held against his chest, his arms locked under the weight.

“We had six valets and two desk clerks watching my mother stand in a resort lobby while you played games with the account,” Mark said.