Nate reached deep into his thigh pocket, pulled out three hundred dollars in wet, rolled-up twenties, and laid them flat on the laminate counter next to my pile.

“Feeder chain on the Vance place,” Nate said, taking another bite of pie.

“He was desperate to keep his header moving before the ground froze.”

I opened my black vinyl bank deposit book and smoothed out the damp bills on the counter.

“Where’s the lockbox?” Nate asked, watching me write down the serial numbers.

“In the tin behind the winter boots,” I said.

“I write down every bill before I take it to the drive-up window.”