Avery Came Home From Overseas and Found Her Name on the Lake Deed
I pulled the gold-tabbed folder toward me, closed the heavy cover, and laid my hand flat over Walter’s locked ledger.
At ten o’clock that morning, Frank pulled a bent yellow fuel invoice out of his grease-stained shirt pocket and held it out to me.
Frank, the site manager who had worked for my father for twenty-two years, wiped his thumb on his canvas pants as he stood beside a rusty 1998 Ford utility truck with 184,000 miles on it.
“The bulk fuel supplier cut off our diesel credit two hours ago,” Frank said.
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