I found my voice only because silence felt worse. “Mr. Hollister,” I said, and the whole café went still enough to hear the ice machine cycle. “Travis worked every day of October.” Don’s jaw bunched; a flush crept up his neck. Forks dropped, one by one, as if the long table were shedding its defenses. Eleven years of pre‑dawn gathers and midnight calvings sat between us like a coiled rope. Travis didn’t flinch. “You docked me for days I ain’t even missed yet,” he said, his voice steady, his busted arm hanging useless but his shoulders squared. At the far end, Hank Riggs turned his chair slow, the scrape of wood on tile a verdict in itself. Don’s hand disappeared into his jacket and stayed there so long I imagined a pistol, a folded termination notice, anything but what finally emerged—a worn bank envelope and a confession that spilled out raw: he’d driven to our windmill twice, too ashamed to admit he’d been wrong, and more ashamed to admit he was broke, and that one shattered arm had kicked the last leg out from under a widower’s pride and a ranch already dying of droug… Continues…