“The grain elevator check belongs to my father and mother,” I said.

“It pays for tractor diesel and seed, not resort suites in late August.”

Mark stared at the dusty dirt between our shoes, his arms stiff at his sides.

“Nora, please,” Mark said, his voice dropping into a low, strained whisper that barely carried across the truck bed.

“Can we please go somewhere else and talk about this?”

“No,” Ruth said before I could open my mouth.

Ruth turned her head and looked straight at her son, slowly shaking her head from side to side as she stood shoulder to shoulder with me by the corn crates.