Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table

I had bought it in cash two days ago from a dealer in the city.

The leather seats still smelled like the factory.

“What about that old green Ford?” the foreman asked.

“You want us to haul it to the scrapyard?”

I looked at my old truck sitting in the mud by the porch.

Arthur had taken the keys last night, but he had left the truck here when he rode home with Helen.

He wanted to claim it, but he didn’t want to drive it.

“Leave the Ford,” I said.