Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“We can make the old John Deere last another five years,” Clara said, her voice dropping to a quiet drawl. “We do not need the new one.”
“It is not about the tractor, Clara,” George said.
He looked at Patrick, who was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, his head lowered as he rubbed the smooth back of the pocket watch.
“It is only paper, Andrew, but she is our blood,” George said.
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his black ink pen.
The pen was a black ballpoint with the logo of the local feed store printed on the side in gold letters.
The kitchen was silent except for the hum of the old refrigerator in the corner.
George pulled the first bond toward him, his hand steady as he pressed the pen to the paper.
He signed his name on the back of the blue savings bonds.
The blue ink was barely dry before George slotted the certificates back into their paper sleeves.