Several pages near the back contained new drawings.
Six parallel lines.
A fence post.
A black circle.
And measurements written in Grandpa's careful handwriting.
The boy looked up.
βWhat's this?β
Frank's eyes filled.
βAn old project.β
βCan we work on it when you're better?β
For a moment, the older man seemed unable to speak.
Then he nodded.
βI hope so.β
Noah smiled.
His grandfather rested one hand against his cheek.
βAnd Noah?β
βYes?β
βDon't let Dale Harker tell you that the ground is worthless.β
The boy frowned.
βWhy would he?β
Frank looked toward the window.
For several seconds, he remained silent.
Then whispered, βBecause sometimes people call something worthless when they want to buy it cheaply.β
Noah stared.
He didn't understand.
But he remembered.
And when Frank died three weeks later, the green notebook became the most important thing Noah owned.
The first bank letter arrived two weeks after Frank's funeral.
Grace found it on a Tuesday evening, tucked between an electricity bill and a catalog from a farm equipment supplier. She opened it standing beside the kitchen counter, still wearing her hospital scrubs, and read the first paragraph three times before sitting down.
The farm owed $38,600 on its operating loan.
The lender wasn't demanding immediate payment of the entire balance, but the next installment was overdue, and the existing repayment arrangement depended on income the farm had failed to produce. Without a credible plan, the account could eventually move into formal collection and foreclosure proceedings.
Grace knew the situation was serious.
The drought had taken away the income she expected from the small grain crop. Repairs had consumed the reserve money, and Frank's final medical expenses had left the household struggling. She had already reduced spending wherever possible, but there were limits to what one exhausted woman could accomplish while working full-time and raising a child.
She folded the letter.
Then placed it beneath the breadbox.