Inside was a single folded letter in Grandpa’s block print, and a smaller sealed envelope clipped to the back with a bank card from Hutchinson. I unfolded the letter and read it out loud, my voice shaking, while the trucks pulled up behind us and doors slammed. “Della,” it began. “Everyone else got a dollar because a dollar is exactly what they gave me these last two years. You gave me Wednesdays. You gave me clean sheets and peppermints and my own story told back to me like it mattered. So I gave the rest of them what they earned, and I saved the farm for the one who never left.”

Della’s hand flew to her mouth. Behind us, Wesley was already knocking on the window, Aunt Rhonda close behind him, their faces pressed against the glass. The second envelope was still sealed, and the letter said to open it at the bank in Hutchinson, where Mr. Whitfield had set up an account in Della’s name two years before Grandpa died. But it was the last line of the letter that made me set it down in my lap and just breathe for a second, because it explained the six cousins pounding on the truck and it explained why Grandpa had made her open it privately, and it explained the dirt road he’d sent us down. “Whatever they say when they find out,” the letter ended, “remember: I was awake for every minute of those Wednesdays, and I knew exactly who was really there.”