“How about we take out a mortgage on the building. Thirty grand, something like that. You take the money from the bank, and I pay the mortgage and the taxes and pocket anything extra. And if I can’t rent the space, I lose. If I can, and I make more than the bills, I win. Either way, you’re free and clear. Once the mortgage is all paid down, say thirty years from now, the building is still yours.”

Sherri turned that idea around in her mind. They were on Highway 120, passing over Sugar Creek. Thirty years was an eternity, an amount of time she couldn’t wrap her head around. “Thirty grand?”

“That sounds about right to me. That’s enough to get you a fresh start somewhere else.”

“What do I do about Arthur?”

“So about him—” Jerry was going to say more but he slammed on the brakes abruptly, throwing his arm in front of Sherri so she wouldn’t fly through the windshield. She became acutely aware of her bruised rib again.

“Hang on.” Jerry pulled over to the side of the road and threw the car into park. He stepped out and clomped along the asphalt in his wing tips. She watched him bend down to pick up a giant turtle from the middle of the road. He carried it to the other side, walked down a berm and into the wetland to set it free. He returned to the car wiping his hands with the stained linen handkerchief he kept in his pocket. Mud was caked onto the sides of his shoes.

“The turtles don’t stand a chance with all the trucks. You know those buggers can live to be almost two hundred years old? That big guy I just moved, he was probably older than I was. Older than my grandpa. You should have seen him kicking. Mad as a hornet.”

“I didn’t have you pegged as the kind of guy who saves turtles.”

“I think I know what kind of guy you had me pegged as.”

He was right. “Jerry, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. You weren’t entirely wrong.” He stared straight ahead.

“That’s nice you saved it.”

“Nice? It’s what you do. I’ll tell you something about turtles, Sher. They have a slow metabolism. They move slow, but they also die slow. Say a truck ran him over. It could take him weeks to pass. We don’t want that.”

“No,” she said. “We don’t.”