Truman Lindqvist is Morris’s older brother. He’s forty-one, tall and rawboned, with the same pale blue eyes as Morris and none of the gentleness. He farms forty acres across the gravel road from us, the forty his father left him, and he works part-time driving a feed truck for the co-op in Hampton.

He climbed out of his pickup holding papers, and he didn’t bother with hello.

“Sign it, Anna,” he said, holding them out. “Six thousand an acre. It keeps the eighty in the family.”

I didn’t take the papers.

Six thousand an acre for the home eighty came to $480,000. The going rate for good Franklin County ground that fall was closer to eleven thousand an acre. The auction down the road in September had brought $11,400. The eighty was worth nearly $900,000.

“I told you no on Tuesday, Truman,” I said. “And I told you no at the funeral lunch. It’s Henry’s ground.”

“Henry’s ten.”

“He won’t always be.”

“You can’t run this place by yourself, Anna. Everybody knows it. You’re going to lose it to the bank inside two years, and then some outfit from Des Moines buys it and it’s gone. This way it stays a Lindqvist farm.”

“It is a Lindqvist farm. Henry’s a Lindqvist.”

His jaw worked. He looked at the combine, the green John Deere S670 that Morris had bought used four years ago and babied like a racehorse. He looked at Ethan, sitting in the cart tractor. He looked at the sky.

“You’ve got twelve acres left,” he said. “Rain Sunday night. You need to think about what you’re doing.”

“I’m cutting beans,” I said. “That’s what I’m doing.”

That was when he leaned into the cab.

When I think about it now, I don’t remember being angry. I remember being very, very still, like a deer in a ditch. Ethan told me afterward that I didn’t move for almost a full minute after Truman’s pickup turned onto the gravel.

Then I took off one work glove and stood there thinking it through, the way Morris taught me to think through a breakdown. What’s broken. What can I fix. What can’t I.

Calling the sheriff wouldn’t find one key ring in eighty acres of soybeans. And it was Truman. Morris’s brother. Mabel’s son. Henry’s uncle.

The John Deere dealer in Hampton closes at noon on Saturdays. It was 11:20. Even if they had a spare key, which I doubted, there was no way to get one programmed and out to me before Monday. By Monday, two inches of rain would be lying on those beans.

Twelve acres of soybeans that had yielded about sixty bushels an acre in the rest of the field was seven hundred and twenty bushels. At $10.20 a bushel at the elevator that week, that was $7,344. And if they got rained on and sat in the field for a week, the beans would shatter, the pods would split, and the beans would fall on the ground. I could lose a third of it, maybe more.

Seven thousand dollars was the November payment on the operating loan Morris had taken out in March at Hampton State Bank. It was the money for Henry’s winter coat and boots. It was the propane for the house.

I didn’t cry. I thought about crying, distantly, the way you think about rain that’s still two counties away.

I pulled out my phone and called Don Halverson.