Friday.
On the top right corner of the desk sat the heavy brass paperweight shaped like a John Deere model 4020 that his uncle had given him for his high school graduation. I lifted the tractor to grab the stack of pink receipts beneath it.
Underneath the fuel slips sat a slip of yellow paper printed on carbonless bank stock. It was a cashier’s check receipt from the Oelwein State Bank, dated September twenty-eighth.
The amount typed across the middle line was fourteen thousand five hundred dollars and zero cents. The line for the payee was blank, but the remitter line had Travis’s full name printed in dark blue ink.
Mason leaned his elbows on the corner of the desk, staring up at the light bulb. “Are we getting more corn?”
“No,” I said. My fingers felt stiff against the yellow paper.
Fourteen thousand five hundred dollars was almost the
