I wrote the lawyer’s name on the back of the county’s envelope anyway. Doug Pratt. With his phone number underneath. Just in case.
I took Thursday off work.
I’m a dental hygienist in Cedar Falls, forty minutes away. I’d only taken two sick days in three years. My boss gave me a funny look when I asked.
“Family thing,” I said.
“Is your dad okay?”
“He’s fine. It’s the neighbor who’s the problem.”
I drove out to the house at seven in the morning. Dad was already in the garden, of course. On his knees in the bean rows with his bucket, picking.
“Dad, the inspector’s coming at nine.”
“I know.”
“Shouldn’t you come inside? Change your shirt?”
He looked down at his shirt. It was his old blue work shirt, faded almost white at the elbows, with a tear in the pocket.
