My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
I turned on the overhead fluorescent lamp. Under the sharp, white light, the postmark on the envelope showed it had been processed in Craig four days ago.
This letter has my brother’s name on it, but the bank sent it to my gate.
Evan did not live here. He had never been to this county as far as I knew. He was sixty miles away in Kiowa, living in our father’s house, yet the bank’s legal department had this rural route delivery address on file for him.
I did not open the envelope. The paper was thick, and the seal was tight. I held it up to the light of the lamp, but the paper was too heavy to show anything through the backing. I set it on the counter next to my truck keys.
The next afternoon, I drove into Craig to Hensley Hardware. The store was warm, smelling of dry pine wood, fertilizer, and the heavy machine oil they used to thread pipe. I walked down the narrow aisles, past the rows of galvanized nails and rolls of barbed wire.
