“I paid your final wages in physical legal tender.

Five sacks of real coin on your driveway.

Count it or leave it, but don’t you come in here demanding special favors.”

A farmer I’d known for three years sat in the corner chair, staring at the floor between his boots without saying anything.

“Give me my printed earnings statement,” I said quietly.

“Get out of my lobby,” Dale said, turning his back on me and slamming the garage door behind him.

At eleven thirty I walked out to the town square and sat down on the green iron bench by the library steps.