“Not on Brad’s say-so.”

The cold wind rattled the dry cornstalks around our boots as the sky paled to an icy gray.

Russ Lindahl edged back toward the south gate, rubbing the back of his neck again.

“If Brad never had permission, where’d our money go?”

“Ask Brad,” I said.

“Or ask a lawyer.”

Kurt stood in the frost, his eyes fixed on the tree line.

“I’ve got that paper in my pocket right now,” Kurt said quietly.