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

I stood alone in the wide driveway.

Desmond had always been quiet, but he usually looked people in the eye.

I walked over to my old pickup.

The paint was chipping along the wheel wells, and the two hundred thousand miles on the odometer showed in every dent and rust spot.

From the outside, I looked exactly like the desperate failure my sister said I was.

I put the key in the ignition and started the engine.

That evening, I sat at my desk in the farm office.