Martha was fifty-eight, with neat gray hair and a yellow legal pad beside an open fountain pen.

She didn’t look up right away.

She finished writing a line on her pad, set down the pen, and pulled my papers toward her.

“This printer stamp on the loan draft is dated last Thursday,” Martha said, pointing a trimmed fingernail at the faint red numbers along the margin.

“He told me it was an old draft from last year,” I said.

“He wants to use my father’s ten acres as collateral for a commercial equipment loan.”