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

I pulled the truck door open.

The metal hinges groaned loudly.

I climbed into the cab and shut the door hard to block out the street noise.

“Everything runs,” I said.

“Even the baler?” Ranata pressed.

“I remember you saying something about a broken belt on the hay baler last month.”

I gripped the worn steering wheel.

I had never discussed a hay baler with my sister in my entire life.