Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
The pump at the Sinclair station on the edge of town had a cracked digital screen that flickered in the gray morning light. I slid my plastic debit card into the slot and waited for the prompt.
The screen blinked twice and then displayed the words transaction declined.
I pulled the card out and wiped the magnetic strip on my trousers, then tried it again. The machine spat the card back out with the same flat rejection.
A man in a red insulated vest was waiting behind my truck, holding an empty five-gallon gas can. He looked at his watch.
Having trouble with the reader, he asked.
Looks like it, I said.
I went back to the cab of the truck and reached under the driver’s seat. My fingers found a small canvas bank bag where I kept spare change for the car wash.
I poured the contents onto the passenger seat. There were three crumpled five-dollar bills, five quarters, eight dimes, and four nickels.
