They knew what we made at the dental clinic and the county shop.

We weren’t supposed to have this kind of money to throw around.

We drove a Buick with one hundred ninety thousand miles on it.

The man in the brown jacket kept his eyes on his phone.

He casually tipped his chin up, not even bothering to raise his arm.

“Two hundred seventy thousand,” Denny said.

This man was a representative from a Grand Island land company.

Tom Barrett had warned us about them at the bank on Friday afternoon.