My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
I could not see the driver through the frosted rear glass. I only saw the shape of a single shoulder leaning toward the middle console as the car sped away.
My father did not drive a sedan, and Evan did not have a vehicle that was currently running.
I walked back to my truck and sat in the cab with the heater blowing full blast on my face. The white plume from the sedan’s exhaust still hung in the air over the road, a thin mist that took five minutes to disappear.
The kitchen in the ranch house was small, with yellow linoleum that had peeled up at the corners near the old gas stove. At six in the evening, I sat at the table with a bowl of canned soup and a legal pad, trying to make sense of the dates.
I wrote down the dates of the mailings I had received from the bank. The yellow-stickered foreclosure envelope was still sitting on the counter next to my truck keys, its corner curled from the dampness of my coat pocket.
