“Out-of-state money is driving up the price per acre.”

“I know,” I said.

“You’re going to need twenty percent down just to get the bank to look at a loan,” Tom said.

“I’ll have it,” I said.

I folded the receipt neatly in half and pushed it deep into my coat pocket.

Saturday afternoon, the Methodist church held its annual rummage sale.

The big gym floor smelled of old paper bags and industrial floor wax.

Luke and I stood over a long folding table piled high with donated clothes.