The gravel lot outside Arthur Vance’s site office was empty except for Arthur’s black pickup truck, its engine idling under the security floodlight at half past five.

Arthur stood by his driver’s door, pulling on leather work gloves as Nathaniel stepped out into the yard.

“You’re late, Nathaniel,” Arthur said, his big voice loud in the quiet lot.

“Is the paper signed?”

Nathaniel pulled the folded release form and the check out of his coat pocket.

“Martha turned down the offer,” Nathaniel said.

Arthur stopped tugging his glove tight and looked down at Nathaniel’s hand.

“She’s living in a heated barn on your charity,” Arthur said.