Through my bedroom window, I watched Dad load eleven cardboard boxes filled with produce into his old green truck.
He secured a tarp over everything, climbed behind the wheel, and disappeared down the road.
He returned hours later with an empty truck bed.
I spent the rest of that day wondering what he was hiding.
Saturday arrived beneath a thick blanket of fog.
By five-thirty, Dad had prepared an enormous urn of coffee, the one Mom used to bring to church gatherings.
He was already working among the bean rows when Tyler arrived at six.
The inspector accepted a cup of coffee and stood beside me on the porch.
Across the fence, Brent watched from his second-story deck, wearing a dark blue bathrobe.
He looked pleased with himself.
Then headlights appeared through the fog.
An old red pickup stopped beside the road.
A white truck pulled in behind it.
Then another car.
